


Death Takes A Holiday: The Waters of the Fragrant Harbour

by LyraNgalia, rude_not_ginger



Series: Death Takes A Holiday [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Children, Cocaine, Denial of Feelings, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Great Hiatus, Hong Kong, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internal Conflict, Kidnapping, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an attempt at destroying Jim Moriarty's web in Las Vegas goes awry, Sherlock Holmes is left chasing the identities of Irene Adler's captors. Meanwhile, Irene Adler discovers something about her kidnappers that may prove too tempting for her to resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Thickness of Blood and Water

**Author's Note:**

> Please see [_Death Takes A Holiday: In the Shadow of the Black Mountain_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/694742) for notes/explanations on the peculiarities of this fic's writing style.

The news in Las Vegas had been quiet that afternoon. An explosion at a shuttered gas station in the desert. Police investigation suspected teenagers despite the traces of accelerant at the scene. After all, wasn't gasoline an accelerant, and wasn't the gas station soaked in decades of the stuff?  
  
No mention of kidnapped women or strangers brought into hospitals. And certainly no mention of a Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong that carried a curious group of passengers in first class. Three women, two of them sporting bandages from some 'sight-seeing accident'. One of them so afraid to fly that she'd dosed herself with Dramamine too early and had to be carried on by her friends.  
  
It was Las Vegas. Things like that happened.  
  
***  
  
She swam out of the fog of unconsciousness once during the flight and had enough of her wits about her to keep quiet, to stay still and to keep her ears open. After all, how far of an escape could one person make on an airplane? There was very little she could make out, her Chinese vocabulary consisting mostly of words cried out in pain and passion, neither of which were conducive to following the conversation of kidnappers. But before they noticed and drugged her again, she caught a name.  
  
 _Moran._  
  
A name. A clue. A key.  
  
***  
  
She escaped once in Hong Kong. The island metropolis had no shortages of crowds, and she dodged her captors in a particularly dense one. Made her way along Causeway Bay, ducked her way into an internet cafe. But even keeping to tourist-frequented areas, she stood out far too much in the city, a redheaded Caucasian woman with little functional grasp of the language, and it had taken the well-connected assassins/kidnappers/criminals a painfully short time to find her again.  
  
***  
  
The room she was held in was well-appointed, though the door remained shut. Chained from the outside, if she were to guess, from her successful picking of the lock from the inside. It swayed, suggesting she was on the water, though the sole window had been painted over. Like clockwork, a cannon would sound, and sometimes she smelled both chlorine and brackish water.  
  
She slept rarely, and even without the benefit of a mirror Irene could tell that bruises had blossomed on her skin, the most irritating one high on her cheek, curling up around her eye, that throbbed incessantly. But she spent little time dwelling on it, instead continuing to explore every inch of her cell. Several of the wall panels in her cell had been removed and replaced, and she had some idea where she was and how to get out.  
  
It didn't solve the problem of the kidnappers, or their too-connected network. But it was a start.  
  
  
Five hours, Sherlock determined. From the amount of missing tape in the hospital to the time she was checked out by "concerned friends". Sherlock wasted no time in acquiring clothing and money from an office. Whoever the doctor had been, he'd live without the money and the clothes. Shame his shoes were a bit too small. Sherlock split the side of them to make room. He'd find more later.  
  
He rode coach to Hong Kong. He knew enough to look at the waterway, the saltwater residue left from a leather glove folding the lotus flower was enough to determine that, and the paper's origins determined everything else. Also, from the folding pattern, he knew the folder was a woman who was right-handed and weighed approximately 80 kg.  
  
The Black Lotus. Sherlock wanted to believe that it was all about him, that he was their target, but their choice in an assassin, one that would recognize the Woman from sight, changed his mind. They wanted something from them both, perhaps? Impossible to say, yet. _What does it mean when an assassin can not shoot straight?_ If they weren't really trying, what were they after?  
  
He bought a long, black coat. it was not the same as the one he wore in London, but the resemblance was clear. Here, on this dock, he wanted to be recognized. He wanted someone to see him and slip. He stood on the dock and watched the people passing by.  
  
A man walked past. Slight limp. Slight limp, reddish mud on his left shoe, up high. Wrong color for this part of the world. Knuckles, bruised. Limp---kick to groin. Kick, mid-calf, someone standing about the Woman's height. Shoe mud origin could be London, but could also be a dozen other places. Knuckle---He grit his teeth, and found himself standing to follow the man.  
  
The man continued to look forward, but pulled out a mobile. He spoke in clear Chinese, but Sherlock picked out one word that he'd learned during his last time with the Black Lotus: _Detective_.

 

 

The last noise she'd heard on the boat had come after sunrise, judging by the temperature of the painted over glass pane and the subdued, almost sleepy voices that had accompanied the footsteps. She'd kept still, pretended to be asleep, when they'd unchained the door and shoved in a Styrofoam box of food. Rice, vegetables, a steamed bun of some sort, with meat filling. Cheap takeaway.  
  
That had been two, maybe three hours ago, if her count was correct. She kept an ear out for the cannon she'd recognized shot off around noon for confirmation. The food that had been brought to her had been hidden away in one of the compartments. After her previous attempted escape, her captors had taken to drugging her food, much like they had on the flight, and she pretended to eat it, to remain docile and unmoving when somebody approached.  
  
She expects another meal and another dose of drugs in another three or four hours. Neither the food nor the drugs worried her, though the lack of information, the complete _inability_ to overhear her captors infuriated her and Irene made a mental note to add Chinese to her repertoire.  
  
She waits, in the dark, gently rocking cell. Waits for nightfall, for another delivery of food. She has a chance, if her sense of time is not completely off, if the routine that was starting to emerge were to hold. The plan had started to come together in her mind. To turn the drugged food on her captors, to slip out again, this time under cover of darkness.  
  
With the time the drugged food would buy her, there is a better chance of getting out of the country, and digging with the clues she _had_ managed to understand.  
  
But until then, she waits.  
  
  
This was _brave_. A pier just underneath the Hong Kong Police Officer's Club. The man Sherlock was following stopped, but then immediately continued. Something made him stop, and Sherlock has a feeling that it has nothing to do with his mobile. He's aware he's being followed, and he can't go where he's planned.  
  
Sherlock stops where the man was standing and looks around. Something's wrong here. A warehouse, perhaps? Something to---  
  
No. His cuffs. Dirty on the trouser, but cleaner on the shoes. Wet. On a boat. A yacht. Now, what isn't supposed to be there? He turns to look and sees it. The yacht sitting in a spot that isn't a spot, just off of where it should be. Probably paid police officers to ignore it. Windows painted over. The perfect place to hide.  
  
He doesn't bother being subtle. He steps over to the edge of the pier and hops on.

 

 

She's keeping an ear out, and it's the only reason she hears the squeak of weight on wet boards, the footsteps that follow. In the dark room, Irene frowns. She can't have miscalculated the passage of time that badly, and even if she had she would have heard the cannon.  
  
She runs her hands over a now-familiar piece of the bulkhead, a piece that came loose easily, behind which she'd stowed a few items. A piece of piping that had been loose behind the bulkheads that she'd removed from its brackets. Hardly useful. The disposable chopsticks that had come with her meal, split to a point. Good for nothing more than startling and maybe shallowly drawing blood. But easily concealed.  
  
She grabs those and returns to where she'd been resting, feigning drugged sleep every time the door had opened, though this time she is tension taut, straining to hear something. Anything out of the ordinary.  
  
  
The yacht appears empty. He stands, waiting for someone, anyone to approach. Nothing. He steps around, checking to see if anyone is within any of the hiding areas on deck. Nothing. He heads down the stairs. A vast array of equipment is hung up on the wall. Pliers. Knives. Things intended for torture. He finds his hands balled into tight fists.  
  
If she's dead, no force on this earth will stop him from doing the things that sanity has prevented him from doing in the past.  
  
He puts a hand to a doorknob at the bottom of a narrow hall. It's locked. He grabs the knife and pries the lock free. In his other hand, he holds a small pistol. Six rounds, purchased just after he got off of the plane. He acted like a foolish, frightened tourist, paid four times what it was worth, and then broke the man's jaw to find out information.  
  
He felt nothing, then.  
  
He feels anticipation, now.

 

 

Footsteps. Hesitant. Not the sure, solid footsteps of the boat's owners. Someone looking for assistance, or lost? The footsteps make their way down the stairs. Pause again. Irene holds her breath. She knows what is in the room right below the stairs. If it's a passerby, they would certainly run.  
  
But the footsteps begin again, coming closer, and her hands tightened on the flimsy, utterly useless splintered bits of wood that were the closest thing she had to weapons at the moment. The rasp of metal against metal. She remains curled where she is to the right of the door, feigning drugged sleep, her face towards the wall, curled up as if to protect vital organs . She would rather face the door, but to do that if the door opened would blind her momentarily. This way she gave up the advantage of knowing who had walked in but it will give her eyes time to adjust from the current darkness.  
  
Those seconds might matter, if she managed to play her cards right.  
  
She waits for light.  
  
  
Three, two, one.  
  
He slams the door open, exposing himself to an utterly dark room. He has the gun in front of him, but there's no one there. No one, apart from a curled up body on the floor. His heart stops. No. No, she can't be. She can't.  
  
He doesn't drop the gun, but he does drop the knife as he falls down next to her, putting a hand on her arm.  
  
"Irene?"  
  
  
Her eyes adjust slowly, but she isn't blinded by the sudden light, and at the touch of a warm hand on her arm, Irene moves, her hand clasping on the stranger's wrist as she rises quickly to her feet, trying to twist the intruder's arm behind his back while trying to get him between herself and the wall of the room.  
  
It takes her an extra second to process what he's said but, when she does, she lets go immediately.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
  
He looks down at her and assesses the damage. Injury to the face, from being thrown into the corner of a metal table---no, no, wooden table. Bruises, rib cage fractured. Hasn't eaten or drank water---were they not giving it to her? Starving her?  
  
He doesn't stop himself from reaching out to touch the side of her face. The touch is gentle and awkward, like a man with a cast trying to touch a delicate instrument. Sherlock wields emotions unsteadily, uncertainly.  
  
There's a noise behind him and that's a lot easier to deal with. He sees a police officer stepping towards the door. He does an analysis of the shoes. Slight scuffing, but relatively new. Water damage from previous time on yachts. White paint from previous time on _this_ yacht.  
  
The moment the leg of the police officer appears within the doorway, Sherlock's hand moves, grabbing the knife from the ground and embedding it into the calf of the approacher.  
  
  
Adrenaline _sings_ in her veins, its effects amplified by the lack of food and water in her system, and she turns towards the footsteps, the sharp cry of pain from the officer at the knife suddenly protruding from his calf. She nearly berates Sherlock, but before she does she notices the officer's face, the distinctive scar that had run from his ear to his brow. She'd seen him before, when she'd made it to the cafe.  
  
She crosses the room and claps a hand over the officer's mouth to keep him from crying out again.  
  
"Did you miss the throat or were you actually aiming for the leg?" she asks.  
  
  
  


Sherlock ignores the Woman's question and turns the man's hand over. Bruising, side of hand. Pattern of callouses and bone structure matches the bruising on the Woman's face.  
  
"Get upstairs," he says. "We'll get the yacht out of here. I'll take care of this."  
  
  
Most people, upon being rescued from an international kidnapping, might have simply complied. Most people might even have been more concerned with the dehydration and the lack of food than anything else.  
  
But then, Irene Adler was not most people.  
  
Her lips thin and she gives Sherlock an utterly unimpressed look over the officer's shoulder. "Take the yacht _where_? It's rather noticeable," she asks. The officer attempts to bite her, and gets an elbow to his side for the trouble.  
  
A smile, though it pulls at a bruise and she is irritated by how it hurts. "Try not to get blood everywhere, we might still be able to use him as a decoy."  
  
  
He reaches out and grips the man's hair, pulling him back into the dark room where the Woman had been. He produces a translator from his pocket, which he sets to translate his words, and then the man's.  
  
"I imagine he'll be passable," he says. "Though walking with both of his kneecaps broken might be difficult."  
  
He reaches out to shut the door.  
  
  
"As long as he can lie in a heap in the corner, I don't see how it makes any difference what state his kneecaps are in."  
  
She doesn't bother telling him that the officer spoke English. Likely he'd find out soon enough. Irene stares at the closed door for a moment, emotions crossing her face now that there was no one to see them. Relief. Vindictive pleasure. Surprise. Unexpected fondness.  
  
But it passes in seconds and she turns away from the door and heads down the narrow hall. She is careful to keep from disrupting too much in the yacht, though she manages to find clean (if ill fitting) clothes and a slim knife, as well as the galley, where she folds ice into a paper towel and holds it to the still-throbbing bruise at her face.  
  
She listens carefully to the muffled sound from below, and puts more ice into another paper towel.  
  
  
Sherlock has often wondered what it would be like if he didn't enjoy being on "the side of the angels" as much as he does. If he didn't like seeing justice, or stopping crime. He imagines it would be like this. He does, indeed, find out that the officer speaks English. He also finds out a little bit about why the Woman was kidnapped. The officer was mostly for grunt work, carrying, fetching, and ignoring crime around this area.  
  
He'd live, Sherlock determined as he shut the door to head back to the top of the yacht, but he may not like it. Sherlock wiped his knuckles on a handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket.  
  
"They already know we're here," he says as he makes it up to where the Woman stands. "Probably have a minimum of two snipers on us."  
  
  
She takes a single look at him and hands him the second ice pack. There is too much adrenaline and not enough of anything else in her system, and it leaves her feeling unpleasantly shaky, as if she cannot trust her own body not to lose control.  
  
"With his clothes and his hat I could pass for the officer, at least at first glance," she says, leaning against the counter. She refuses to sit down, as if doing so would tell him exactly how badly she is doing. Pride.  
  
She glances at him, at the long black coat. "Except you can't pass as just the over-curious tourist strolling onto a boat."  
  
  
He looks down at the ice pack like it's a foreign object, and tucks the handkerchief away in his pocket.  
  
"The Black Lotus," he says. "Chinese crime organization. Helped knock out a few of their members in London. They must've been keeping an eye on me since then. The question is--why target you?"  
  
She was vulnerable in that hospital. She's vulnerable right now, standing on the yacht with him, but she's still alive. He's still alive.  
  
"They want something."  
  
  
She frowns. The clue had been in the name. _Sebastian Moran_. She remembered him, Moriarty's enforcer. He'd been the one to help fake her death the first time, but she hadn't liked him much. She doubted she'd change her mind now.  
  
But he hadn't been behind this. Not if the way his name had been spoken had been any indication. They'd been hoping to contact him. For what reason, Irene hadn't figured out.  
  
Once again she mentally cursed her lack of comprehension in Chinese.  
  
But she doesn't tell him that. An idea is forming at the back of her mind and she keeps that to herself.  
  
Instead, she sets the ice pack down, and probes the bruise around her cheek and eye with a cautious fingertip, checking for damage.  
  
"Are they part of the spider's web?"  
  
  
"Undoubtedly," Sherlock says. "They want me to bring the general to them. Either by attracting him or---something along those lines. Why not just prove it's me and move on?"  
  
No, there's something else.  
  
He drops down to the ground and looks at the streaks of mud on the floor. Two women, three men. One barefoot---the Woman, undoubtedly. A woman in high heels, a woman in trainers, as well. Similar walking pace. Could be the same woman.  
  
He gets back up, ready to ask the Woman questions. He sees her touch her face, and the first thing that comes to mind comes out of his mouth:  
  
"Did they hurt you?" he asks. "Psychologically, sexually---?" In ways he might not be able to deduce from an initial glance.  
  
  
She almost makes a comment about his arrogance, about his razor sharp focus and the belief that this was, in all its elaborateness still an attempt to do nothing but kill him. There had been a distinct lack of focus on her captors' part after they'd gotten her to Hong Kong. As if they had been waiting for instructions. The words are on the tip of her tongue when he asks his spontaneous, indelicate question and it brings her up short.  
  
For a moment she simply looks at him, surprised, before a smile curves her lips. It is neither the archly amused smirk of their endless games, nor the soft vulnerability of the motel outside Las Vegas, but something in-between.  
  
"They were too busy trying to drug me into docility to do anything," she answers. She doesn't bother mentioning the bruises, the scratches, or whatever blow had landed that made it just a bit painful to breathe too deeply. She suspects he's deduced all that. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment."  
  
  
Sherlock doesn't understand the smile. He doesn't understand what he said to invoke that. All the same, he finds something tight in his chest loosens at the knowledge that she hasn't been hurt like---hurt in ways he can't see obviously.  
  
"I think you should," he says. "I think that woman you knew might've assisted in warning them. But I don't think they expected me to find them so quickly."  
  
  
The mention of the British diplomat surprises Irene and she frowns. Not that she could have seen the woman again, in death. "Pity, I liked her."  
  
A boom from outside rattles the windows (poorly sealed window), and the scent of gunpowder is carried along the air. Noon, give or take a few minutes, the shot from a Hotchkiss three-pounder. Irene jumps in surprise, despite the fact that she'd been listening for the cannon only a little while before.  
  
The sudden motion makes her sway, and she grips the edge of the counter to catch her balance again. "They shouldn't be returning for another three or four hours. Unless the snipers have alerted them that there's been an intruder."  
  
  
"Hmm."  
  
He walks back and picks up a knife. He turns to the Woman, then back to the side of the yacht. He begins scrawling on the wall with the knife.  
  
"You told the staff at the hospital that I was an unruly and difficult patient, and you didn't want me to leave without your consent," he says, his voice slightly irritated.  
  
 _This is Sherlock Holmes. You can find me at---_ And he begins writing down the casino's name. It would leave them fussing around, and he could send an anonymous tip to the Las Vegas police, at least.

 

 

She shrugs, her grip still firm on the counter's edge. There was sealed bottles of water in the galley's small refrigerator. She could rehydrate, but she's gotten used to the mild, persistent thirst and does not think of it for the moment.  
  
What Irene doesn't notice is that she is standing directly behind the painted over window. While the paint obscures her features, it is not perfect, and motion can be seen from the outside, for someone who knew where to look.  
  
"It was true, wasn't it?"

 

 

"I didn't need to be sedated for ten hours," he snaps, finishing up his message and stabbing the knife into the wall. "I needed to be able to leave. They might not have taken you if they couldn't find me to leave notice."  
  
  
"No, it should have been eighteen," she retorts, forcing herself to remain calm. Collected. Utterly unbothered by the accusation or the reminder that he _had_ come, even though she hadn't expected him to.  
  
"As long as the flight from Las Vegas to Sydney."  
  
She had had no intention of taking the flight to Sydney, even before the events that landed her in Hong Kong, of course. But it bore reminding him of his idiotic plan.  
  
  
"Of course."  
  
He's surprised by how very like a slap to the face that feels. But of course she'd leave. He told her to leave. It's better with her gone, and he _knows_ this. But still, deep down, it hurts.  
  
Emotions are a weakness. They're throwing him off-balance.  
  
"No need to worry, we'll get you back on a plane as soon as possible."  
  
  
Inflicting pain was second nature to her, and she expected a response in kind. They are too far alike for anything else. But it still surprises her how much his answer feels like a blow to the spine.  
  
She's too focused on it to realize that there had been a shot, a sound of breaking glass, and that the blow to the spine had been _real_ , had been the tip of a tranquilizer dart in her upper back.  
  
"If you were so eager to part ways, then perhaps you should have stayed in the States."  
  
A second shot, and this time she realizes it isn't metaphorical pain when there is a sharp sting in her shoulder, and streams of sunlight coming in through two holes in the painted glass.


	2. Compromised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malnourished and with two tranquiliser darts' worth of drugs in her bloodstream, Irene Adler is, to put it mildly, compromised. But will she admit it and allow Sherlock to help her?

The way the light streams in, casting a gentle glow to her cheek---it makes her look very comely. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and how pale she appears due to lack of food and water. It makes him think that if---if---but _if_ they were not who they were, then they would never have been here. And she would not look so attractive, even with light hitting her face in such a fashion.  
  
It's in that second that Sherlock realizes light was coming into the room. Light, where there hadn't been any moments before. He races to the window, where two tiny holes are letting in the sun.  
  
"Get down!" he hisses.   
  
  
She is moving slower than she'd like. Her fingers have trouble letting go of the counter, but she sees the end of a tranquilizer dart poking out of her shoulder, and despite her body's inability rebellion, gravity manages to pull her to the ground without fail.  
  
It should hurt, the hard wood against her knees, but she barely notices as her eyes begin to water (or her vision begins to swim) and her fingers close around the dart by her shoulder.   
  
"Not bullets," she says. Or tries to say. It's hard to make her body obey the commands her mind is sending. And there is a bitter taste at the back of her throat. Bile? "Must be just--" She slumps against the counter, and there is another burst of pain as the dart in her shoulder digs deeper.   
  
  
Sherlock looks over to her.  
  
"Woman!" he hisses. "Woman!"  
  
She's slumped down, and he can see a dart sticking out of her back. He crawls over to her, turning her over so he can pull that dart, and the one in her shoulder, out. He smells the tip, but he can only smell the slight coppery scent of blood and the saline scent of the harbor around them.  
  
He lifts one of her eyelids and can see that her pupils are slowly blowing wide. Some sort of a strong tranquilizer, on her empty stomach and without any hydration. Brilliant. He reaches for his phone, only to remember that John wouldn't understand a frantic call from Sherlock right now. There's no one _to_ call.  
  
He lets the Woman slump against him, and pulls back out the gun he had tucked away in his pocket. He can't possibly hit a sniper from this distance, but he can certainly make it think about hiding.  
  
He peers out of the hole in the wall at the Officer's Club. One good shot should send them running.   
  
  
_Tranquilizer._  
  
The thought comes to her far too slowly, and Irene only dimly notices that he is lifting her eyelid. Checking for... Her thoughts drift, and her limbs are heavy; she feels herself slump against him as he moves, shifting rising.  
  
She has enough control left to bite down hard on her tongue, the pain cutting through the drug haze. No blood, just enough stimulation to let her _think_ for a second or two. Did she hear a gunshot? If he did the police would come running. They needed to--  
  
"Lifeboat," she manages to say before succumbing to a wet cough and the taste of bitter bile.   
  
  
Sherlock is not one who often feels horror. He generally abhors the idea of feeling horror, and thus, when presented with it, he is usually left a bit confused or upset. In this case, he is horrified to realize that the Woman is coughing up bile and has managed to get a little onto his sleeve. The coat is _new_ , the bile is _revolting_ , and the Woman---  
  
The Woman could be dying, for all Sherlock knows right now. The idea of the lifeboat is a good one, and he represses all feelings of disgust over his sleeve in order to stand, lift her up into his arms, and head towards the back of the yacht. He can already hear raised voices at a distance. There isn't much time, and the likelihood that any of the police here would help is very, very minimal.  
  
"Woman, keep speaking to me," he says.   
  
  
If she had known what he was thinking, she would have been scathing, would have dismissed his reaction of horror at the coat. If she were thinking, she would have wondered just how she had anything _left_ in her system to cough up. As it was, her entire focus was on trying to stay conscious, trying to ignore the way her awareness swims as he moves her.  
  
The momentary pain had cleared her mind some, but the fog is creeping back slowly and Irene digs her nails into the palm of her hand to keep the chemical fog at bay. It wouldn't last forever, probably wouldn't last more than another five or ten minutes, but for the moment it keeps her awake.  
  
Awake enough, at least, to think about the effects. A tranquiliser, possibly hypnotic. But the taste of bile in the back of her throat, her body's reaction to it, that's not normal. But she doesn't taste blood and that is a good sign. If she can just _stay_ awake long enough to purge the drug from her bloodstream...  
  
"Easier said than done," she answers, despite her attempt at careful enunciation, her words are slurred.   
  
  
"Yes, yes, but if anyone knows how to talk her way out of a situation, it's you. So let's get to talking."  
  
He sees the lifeboat. Motorized. That's good, apart from the fact that Sherlock has no idea how to work a motorized boat. he never needed that knowledge, it was never essential within the confines of London. He steps in, a little unsure of his footing on the small boat, and very nearly drops the Woman before putting her down carefully. He steps over to the motor.  
  
"Tell me what they asked you," he says, trying to keep his voice neutral, rather than frustrated as he tries to start the motor.   
  
  
She barely notices that she's resting on the bottom of the lifeboat. She's far too busy trying to remind herself how to blink (even though the sun is almost painfully bright). But pain is stimulus and it keeps her from slipping into the chemical fog and so she blinks and tries to focus.  
  
There had been very little asking. No systematic interrogation, just bursts of frustrated questions. They, the Black Lotus, she supposes now, had asked about Moriarty. Had demanded to know about the whispers of collapse among Moriarty's network. Had demanded to know 'where he was'. She had assumed they meant Sherlock. And had said nothing, had expected nothing.  
  
Though, when she can think again, she may come to a different conclusion.  
  
She is silent for a long time. Her thoughts are irritatingly slow, and Irene tries to ignore the cold sweat that is clinging to her forehead, the sudden chill that makes her want to curl up.   
  
Something in the tranquiliser? But it isn't working as it should. She feels _ill_ , not asleep, and it doesn't make sense, possibly because she can't think.  
  
"I didn't expect you to come," she says instead.   
  
  
He stops mid-pull and looks back at her. She looks pale, and he can see little beads of sweat on her forehead. She's ill, and that brings to mind poisons rather than tranquilizers. Maybe a reaction from her lack of food? This isn't right, and it shoots cold fear up his veins.  
  
"I could've left you in Karachi, too," he says. "But I _wouldn't_. Never."  
  
He's surprised by the passion in his own voice. He would later say it was because he's put too much work into keeping the Woman alive that letting her die now would be a terrible waste, but for now---well, for now, that passion in his voice is there.  
  
He pulls the cord again, and the motor starts up. He fumbles with the buttons, and the boat begins to move forward.   
  
  
Old tranquilisers, a body already weakened by lack of sustenance, and an unfortunate allergy to something in the drug's formula. She does not realize it yet, and probably won't ever figure out _all_ of it, but it is a combination that will leave her ill for hours.  
  
For the moment, Irene simply thinks that it is sheer force of will keeping her awake, and not drugs that are past their effectivity. The boat moves, and the swimming sensation that had ceased with boarding the boat returns. Her fingers dig deeper into the palm of her hand, but that doesn't actually keep the sensation at bay and she closes her eyes, unconsciously curling up.  
  
It keeps her from seeing his reaction, though the vehemence in his answer is clear in his words alone. The words fall unbidden from her lips, words that she would never have said if she weren't feeling quite as confused and utterly unlike herself as she was now.   
  
"Didn't expect you then either."   
  
  
"Oh?" he says, trying to sound indifferent, when in fact he is quite interested in that statement. It strikes something within him, something he doesn't really understand. "Is that why you texted, then? To remind me how it was my fault even though I was a world away?"  
  
He can hear shouting from the dock, and he looks away from the Woman to see police forming around the yacht. The speed of their arrival shows Sherlock what he already suspected: They knew about this situation. He sees a few of them look up in his direction, and one points. He turns sharply, almost too sharply, weaving around boats to get out of the harbor.   
  
  
She coughs again, and the taste of bile remains in the back of her throat, though thankfully it stays precisely where it is for the moment. There isn't enough left in her body to retch, and she's glad for the moment that her body isn't trying.  
  
Speaking helps keep her focused. Keeps her ignoring the cold sweat and the way the world swims. If she had been more aware, of course, she would have found another subject. But that would have required a lot more concentration, a lot less feeling like her entire body was shutting down in violent protest.  
  
"You were the only one who would have understood what it meant."   
  
  
"I imagine John Watson saw a lot of sentiment in it," he says. "But he hardly knew you."  
  
So, according to Mycroft, did Sherlock. But there was more to them than just the few meetings they had. They conversed in the abstract, he would say. They conversed through their actions rather than words. The way she nearly defeated him was far more enticing than any love poem.  
  
"It's been at least two days since you've had any food. Water?"   
  
  
"The dying are allowed a little sentiment."  
  
She doubts she's dying now, despite what her body might think, but she had been then and well, if one couldn't be sentimental upon impending death, when could they?  
  
The dizziness ebbs a little, and Irene struggles to pull herself back into a sitting position. She manages it, but she is still leaning against the side of the small motorized lifeboat, her knees pulled up against her chest. She tries to unclench her fists, to let go and keep from giving herself yet another wound to recover from.  
  
"Same. Couldn't be certain whether they were drugging the water or the food."   
  
  
"We need to get you hydrated," he says. The sounds of the harbor are far behind him, but he knows that if he pulls away, he might be able to find a hotel or _something_ that will get them a safe place to take care of her. Or, he thinks, even better than that---  
  
He turns the boat towards another side of the harbor and pulls it under a dock. He nods to one of the yachts.  
  
"Owner's away," he says. "Plenty of food and water, though. Planning on a fishing trip, you can tell from the color of the rope."   
  
  
She wants to turn, to see what it was about the colour of the rope that had given things away for him, but Irene knows if she does between the shift in the sway of the boat and the motion she would lose her too-delicate equilibrium again.   
  
"Neither sounds appealing," she answers, finally able to force her hands out of their clenched fists. She doesn't rise, she doesn't even _move_ , because it is for the moment too difficult to do so without risking retching. "How'd you know I hadn't just gone to Australia?"   
  
  
He attaches the boat to the side of the harbor and steps out, pulling the boat over to meet him. He offers her his hand, and then opts to get a better position in order to carry her.  
  
"Put your arm around me," he says. "I'll lift you up."  
  
He's not avoiding telling her that they left a very significant message. But he may be avoiding it.   
  
  
Pride. She is already irritated at her body's rebellion and its inability to be either properly tranquilized and unresponsive or to have shaken the effects immediately. And the idea of being helped up just irritates her more. Which explains why she ignores his instructions and tries to rise to her own feet and climb out of the boat under her own power.  
  
The fact that she's barely able to _stand_ without feeling like the world is spinning only becomes a factor when she has to catch herself.  
  
She curses, the words slurred enough to make it difficult to figure out just what language she's cursing in, and tries to pick herself up again. "You're ignoring the question."  
  
And she's ignoring his help. Fitting, perhaps.   
  
  
"No, I'm _focusing_ on getting you into the yacht before we're spotted," he snaps back.  
  
This is them, he supposes. One trying to help the other who is unwilling. He's immediately reminded of Las Vegas, of arguing with her while she was bleeding and trying to bandage up her wounds. He could've helped her, but instead he chose to be angry that she wouldn't be helped in the way he wanted.


	3. Victory and Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With life and death in the balance, the implications of victory and defeat are suddenly far more personal than either Sherlock Holmes or Irene Adler would like to admit.

Two failed attempts at getting out of the boat under her own power, the second of which nearly ends with her pitching herself over the side and Irene is willing to admit that _maybe_ this wasn't something she can manage alone.  
  
But he's right and they need to get out of sight, so she grits her teeth and swallows her pride. Only then does she take his hand, ignoring the fact that hers is cool to the touch, and her grip trembles.  
  
"Fine."  
  
  
He waits patiently for her to attempt twice, secretly almost hoping she falls into the water in order to quench that stupid, _idiotic_ pride that's keeping her from allowing help. He imagines that John would tell him that the pot needed to stop bothering the kettle, or whatever that stupid phrase was. But she's agreed, and there's no time to mentally digress.  
  
Her hand is cool, and he imagines that she's sweating out what little water and salt she has left in her body. He leans over and puts an arm under her knees to lift her into his arms.  
  
"Are you cold?"  
  
  
She makes a noise of protest as he lifts her off her feet, despite the fact that her arm is already, instinctively, around his shoulders for balance. "What are you-- Let me _down_ I can walk."  
  
She ignores the fact that her words are a blatant lie, that she's prove that by nearly pitching herself into the water already. "And I will be fine as soon as the world stops bloody _moving_."  
  
Another lie.  
  
  
"Apparently we're moving around space and around the sun or some such nonsense," Sherlock says. "So lack of movement is really impossible, I'm afraid."  
  
He really has no interest in understanding spacial movement or whatever it is. It's irrelevant, and wastes valuable hard-drive space. He keeps meaning to delete it, but for some reason every conversation with John Watson sticks in his mind as being important to keep. So he does.  
  
He hears a shout from the other side of a building, but he doesn't know if it means they've been spotted. He won't risk it. He walks quickly, half-leaping onto the deck of the yacht. As suspected, it's empty for the moment, but it won't be that way forever. He puts the Woman down carefully, and pulls out a pocketknife to cut the line free.  
  
  
She leans against the deck of the yacht, half-sitting, careful to keep her head from appearing over the rail. The renewed swaying of being on water is not helping, and she wishes there was something she could do to speed the drug's exit from her system without resorting to blood letting or retching.  
  
She's almost about to insist on finding something in the yacht that would knock her out properly. "Next time I'm drugged, I'll be sure to do it on solid ground," she mutters irritably. "And properly."  
  
  
"Would make you more agreeable," Sherlock says. He's surprised to notice the keys are waiting in the ignition. This is a yacht that's not meant to be stolen. Why? It hardly matters, he supposes. He's going to take care of the Woman by getting away. And now.  
  
He starts the yacht and steers it away from the harbor.  
  
"Once we're far enough out, I'll stop the boat," he says. "There should be water under those seats."  
  
  
"It didn't make _you_ any more agreeable," she cannot help but point out. It actually helps a little, to keep her focus on needling him. She reaches beneath the seats and pulls out a bottle of water, and immediately tosses it onto the seat, unopened.  
  
"Keep to the fishing boats and the ferries. They may not expect us to make it across the harbour to Kowloon." Her knowledge of the city and surrounding area is secondhand, mostly from the British diplomat, but Irene would take what she could at this point.  
  
  
He suspects this boat will be reported missing far faster than he likes, but that's hardly the point. The point is to get out of there. He does as she instructs, glancing back to see the unopened bottle of water. He can't decide if it's unwillingness or inability that keeps the bottle closed.  
  
He slows as he approaches several fishing boats, and turns back to the bottle, which he opens before dropping into the seat next to her. He takes a drink of it, and then offers it to the Woman. Her hand was trembling, perhaps trying to have her hold it is a bad idea.  
  
  
She knows she should have the water, knows that the dehydration is only worsening the drugs' effects, but she remembers the taste of bile at the back of her throat and the idea of having anything in her stomach that can be brought back up is almost repugnant.  
  
She hates being this out of control, and she waves the offer away. "It'll just come back up."  
  
  
He internally recoils at the idea. Worse than that, he tells himself, is her dying.  
  
"Not all of it," he says. "And you're sweating. You need to replenish the water."  
  
He wonders if the distaste for water is a symptom of whatever drug she's been given. He lists in his mind a few different poisons that cause aversion to water. All of them are fatal.  
  
  
She knows he's right, had know it before she rejected the water in the first place. But she is as stubborn as he is, perhaps even more so in certain circumstances, and she has her pride.  
  
She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. "You never did answer the question. How did you know I hadn't just left for Australia?"  
  
  
He lets out a long sigh. She accepted help to get into the yacht. He decides to relent. Just once.  
  
"They left a message," he says. "To tell me that they had you."  
  
He presses the lip of the bottle against her bottom lip.  
  
  
She tries to think through the implications of that new knowledge. She'd been working on the assumption that she had been meant to get Moran's attention, had been meant to be a trade by the Black Lotus. But if they had left Sherlock a message...  
  
That made things more complex. Could it have been that she had been brought to Hong Kong to lure Sherlock Holmes to the place to tempt Moran out of hiding?  
  
Had _he_ been the exchange they were looking to make? Or was it an exchange at all? Proof of loyalty, perhaps. Competence.  
  
She needed more information, and it was information she couldn't get from him. She kept that in the back of her mind for another time, another time when she wasn't covered in cold sweat and working through whatever the sniper had decided to dose her with.  
  
She doesn't notice that she's taken an instinctive sip of water from the bottle held to her lips until she feels the welcome liquid slide down her throat. She opens her eyes to glare halfheartedly at him. "What message?"  
  
  
Something that, if they'd followed through with it, would have changed things dramatically. The origami lotus was usually left with the dead, and Sherlock knew when he saw it that they hadn't planned to keep her alive for very long. Perhaps they were waiting for orders, or uncertain _when_ to do the deed.  
  
Whatever it was, if the Woman had been killed, no one in the Black Lotus would've left the harbor alive. As it was, he was trying very hard to remind himself that many of them were simply pawns, and breaking all of their fingers was unnecessary.  
  
"It doesn't matter," he says. "How do you feel?"  
  
  
Her glare becomes more heartfelt at his continued evasion, and she takes the bottle of water from his hand. She's careful as she does, to keep from betraying any trembling in her hand.  
  
"I'd be better if you weren't looking at me like I'm a piece of porcelain."  
  
And if she weren't feeling like her body was in revolt. But she'll win what battles she can, at this point.  
  
  
"Yes, as would I, if you weren't behaving like one," he says. "Though I'm fairly certain porcelain is less likely to argue about being carried delicately."  
  
The Star Ferry starts to cross their path, and Sherlock moves away from the Woman and back to the wheel. He has no idea how much longer she'll be so coherent, and he isn't about to waste the time he can be apart from her to steer the yacht.  
  
"There'll be a bed downstairs," he says. "Along with more food. Once I've found a place to keep us stable, I'll get you down there."  
  
  
Her grip tightens on the water bottle at his statement, though her expression remains unchanged. She knows, intellectually, that with Sherlock Holmes at her back that she is as safe as she can possibly be trying to recover from whatever is in her system. She knows it and will never admit it, but it doesn't keep the visceral, physical revulsion at the idea of going back below deck at bay.  
  
A visceral revulsion that included her heart beginning to race, sending blood (and the drug currently in her bloodstream) rushing. She realizes what is happening as her awareness begins to swim again, and closes her eyes, forcing herself to draw slow steady breaths, to keep stimuli minimal and her body from revolting. Again.  
  
She tries to sound flippant, unconcerned, but there is a distinct deliberation to her words, careful enunciation. "I'm enjoying the sun, actually."  
  
  
The idea of being afraid of going below deck is beyond Sherlock. It's an automatic response, and he does not function in automatic. He doesn't feel things automatically, and he rarely reacts automatically. Therefore, her reaction is pegged as being stubborn and unreasonable, and he lets out a sound of annoyance to show how he feels about _that_.  
  
"Well, when you finally succumb to whatever they've given you, I'll just carry you down there," he says with a grunt. It is not unlike his threat to carry her to the car when she was bleeding back in Las Vegas. Was that really only a few days ago?  
  
  
She would never call it fear, never admit it as such and would deny it if anyone else did. But it remained that any attempt to convince her to go below would be met with as much resistance as she was capable of. Which, even in her current state was considerable.  
  
"All the more reason to stay awake," she answers, her words still deliberately spoken, her eyes firmly closed and her head tilted back to rest against the seat back. It helps, a little, minimizing her field of vision and keeping her from moving too much. And the sun _does_ feel good on her skin, even if she is bruised and hurt and covered in cold sweat and dirty fabric clings to her skin.  
  
  
"Suit yourself," he snaps, voice high and annoyed. He doesn't like the fact that he can't find anywhere to slow down. All of the ships around him appear to move out of his way, which means he can't simply vanish among them.  
  
"Things would be a lot easier if you'd stop fighting me at every turn," he adds.  
  
  
The single sip of water earlier had reminded Irene just how badly she needed the water, and she raises the bottle again, taking a small, cautious drink. There is still a very good chance she'll lose half of it again before the day is out, but for the moment current thirst is actually more pressing than potential loss of control.  
  
"You only think that because you're convinced you're right about everything."  
  
  
"No," he snaps, just to be stubborn himself. "Just about what is _important._ "  
  
When he thinks about it, however, he thinks that he was wrong to send the Woman off on her own. Whatever this was the Black Lotus was involved in, it was with both of them, not just Sherlock. And she ended up going through whatever they put her through without him.  
  
There is---he feels guilt for that.  
  
  
A faint, tired smile pulls at the corner of her mouth at that. She could almost drift off like this, and not simply because it is warm and bright and she is tired and opening her eyes makes her nauseated, but because there is a familiarity to this, to their exchange, that steadies her mind when everything else feels out of control.  
  
"And who gets to decide what's important?"  
  
  
"Apparently, I do," he says. The boats continue to part for the yacht. Something is definitely not right about this. Keys left in, the knowledge from others to get out of the way. Sherlock looks at the fuel available and attempts to calculate just how far out they could make it before they'd have to turn back.  
  
"I assume when you're situated back in London, your first order of business will be to get your twitter account going again." This is an attempt to continue conversation without keeping it in the same vein. He doesn't bother with subtlety with her.  
  
  
She would have argued the point, but his comment about London makes her open her eyes (and clench the seat as the world momentarily swims again). A deep breath, and the sensation fades.  
  
Good, the spike in nausea must be passing. "Isn't indulging in the hypothetical beneath your usual standards?"  
  
  
He feels rather than sees her clench up. He doesn't know what's caused it. He simply knows she needs to be somewhere safe.  
  
Fine. They aren't going to stop, he is. He brakes the yacht, allowing it to float without the motor for a moment while he turns back to the Woman. He puts an arm on her shoulder.  
  
"Let's go downstairs," he says. Despite his earlier attitude, he schools his voice to be calm, even sympathetic.  
  
  
Two separate changes of subject in as many minutes. She recognizes his pattern by now, the signs that there is something he is avoiding, refusing to talk about, but she would be hard-pressed to recall what it is, having been as focused on overcoming the drugs' effects through sheer force of will as on the conversation.  
  
She looks at him, and her eyes are nearly back to normal, pupils only slightly dilated. "If I say yes, will you stop avoiding the question?"  
  
  
The look on his face is purposefully innocent. Eyes wide, eyebrows raised halfway up.  
  
"What question?"  
  
It's a very obvious and very fake sort of innocence, but he's certain she won't remember what she wanted to know.  
  
  
She gives him the flattest, most unimpressed look she is capable of, which is still considerable despite the vivid bruise that mars her skin. She holds up a hand, raising two fingers, "Why were you talking about Londo--"  
  
And the rebellion she'd known her stomach was capable of hits, and Irene grits her teeth, willing it to pass and for everything to _stay_ exactly where it was. That distraction, of course, manages to force the grip she'd had on the rest of her thoughts to loosen, and they slip away. "You are insufferable."  
  
  
The false innocent look and the smug one that was sure to follow it fall away immediately with the way the Woman grits her teeth, suffering from something. The look on his face is now one of surprise, curiosity, and a healthy dollop of fear.  
  
"What's wrong?" he says. "What are you feeling?"  
  
  
Normally she thrills to any emotion she can draw from him. But the look of fear that crosses his face isn't something she wants to take advantage of, and the fact that it is because he is seeing her own lack of control is galling to Irene.  
  
She tries to wave off his concern with a negligent hand, though to do more than that risks compounding the nausea, and she would prefer not _actually_ losing the water she's managed to take in, especially not around him.  
  
"Nausea," she grinds out. She doesn't want to admit it but it is the most expedient thing to say. "Their tranquilisers must have been faulty."  
  
  
"You also got two darts," he says, trying to push the concern from his voice and failing. "I imagine they didn't expect to hit you twice."  
  
He puts an arm around her shoulder, and puts a hand to her knee.  
  
"Are you ready?"  
  
  
"All the more reason to suspect they're faulty," she replies. "Two should have knocked anyone out cold for hours immediately."  
  
She is starting to realize she cannot sway him from his intended course, and she is at enough of a disadvantage that he might well do as he'd threatened and carry her. And that's even more galling.  
  
She puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm drugged, they didn't break my legs. I can walk."  
  
  
"No, but you did just intake the first water you've had in two days," he says. "It would be a serious shame to lose that due to nausea."  
  
  
"Seems that would be more likely if I were being thrown around like a sack rather than if I were walking under my own power," she retorts.  
  
It's unfair, and she knows it. After all, she _had_ just accused him earlier of treating her like porcelain.  
  
  
"I can have a delicate touch," he says. He allows himself to smirk, just a little at that. They had, after all, very little time to---he supposes John Watson would've called it _flirting_ , but Sherlock would say _discuss_ their intimate moments in the hotel room. It felt almost nice to tease, even if he imagines any flirtation----that is, discussion---would be lost on her.  
  
"Moreso than you at the moment, I imagine."  
  
  
She recognizes that she needs help balancing, which is why she doesn't let go of him, but she refuses to sit back and instead pulls herself to her feet. She may be leaning against him more than she'd like to admit, but it's the principle of the thing that matters.  
  
And _she_ can stop herself if the nausea hits again. Still, she smiles at his words. "Is that a challenge?"  
  
  
"If you like," he says. Her smile is encouraging, at least.  
  
He takes as much of her weight off of her as he can without actually lifting her up. She relented to the water and going downstairs. He can relent to letting her walk---albeit _annoyingly_ slowly---rather than being carried.  
  
  
She is momentarily grateful that he doesn't say anything about how heavily she is leaning on him. Another one of the little fictions they spin to pretend they are not as entwined as they are. She tries to breathe calmly as they near the steps below deck.  
  
"You wouldn't consider it a proper victory if I did, now."  
  
  
The area below deck is rather lush, Sherlock notices. Leather seating, a bed by a small kitchenette. Someone important, perhaps. Maybe that is why such an unassuming yacht is garnering attention. He presses onwards, switching on a small light to illuminate the room. He leads her towards the bed.  
  
"Victory has nothing to with it, Woman, and you know that."


	4. Damage and Delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the strain of his relentless push to find her kidnappers and the effects of the tranquilisers on her body still obvious, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler are running raw, physically and emotionally, as much as they would like to pretend otherwise. Will they be able to wrap their armour back around themselves, or will the glimpse of mutual vulnerability do more damage to two already damaged people? 
> 
> And, perhaps more importantly, just whose yacht have they slipped onto in Hong Kong Harbour?

Her vision swims again as they make it below, but it passes easier. Perhaps because there was less of the drug in her system left to still be metabolized. Or because it was easier to ground herself with the feel of him warm and solid and distinctly _not_ moving (except for the swaying of the boat) against her.  
  
But as her vision clears she takes in the tasteful dim lighting, the polish of wood and the soft sheen of leather. She nearly protests as he steers her towards the bed, but upon sitting down she recognizes that it's far better than standing, than needing to keep her balance.  
  
She doesn't lie down though.  
  
"But if it were you wouldn't want to win simply by a disadvantage in circumstances."   
  
  
He steps away from her and heads over to the kitchen, where he acquires another bottle of water and rifles through the food. He pulls out a tin of beans, which he starts to open.  
  
"Disadvantage," he says, letting out a low, rueful chuckle. If only this situation were about something as simple as _disadvantages_. She's dying, for all he knows right now. He refuses to allow himself to panic over it. He needs to focus on getting her better.   
  
  
She isn't certain what to make of his odd chuckle, but then she has other things of immediate concern, like the way her hair is lying limp and lank against her neck and falling into her face. For a moment she almost considers asking if there were scissors in the well-stocked kitchenette, but she abandons the idea almost immediately.  
  
A few more moments before Irene notices that he's fussing about in the kitchen with a tin of beans. "Disadvantage sounds better than being _impaired_ ," she answers idly, ripping at the hem of her dress to produce a thin strip of cloth.   
  
  
"Drugged, poisoned," he says. "Whatever you want to call it."  
  
He opens the tin and grabs a spoon, before bringing it over to her.  
  
"Can you swallow?" he asks. "And I don't mean that in the way you would hashmark on your twitter."   
  
  
She stops what she is doing when he approaches, and eyes the tin of beans in his hand with extreme skepticism. The smell of food doesn't make her ill, but the thought of how much worse the nausea could get if it returned while there was something other than a miniscule amount of water in her stomach is enough to turn her away from the very idea of eating.  
  
"I'm surprised you'd know about my hashtags."  
  
She doesn't take the tin either.   
  
  
"I considered following your twitter to be---reasonable research," he says. "Especially when I had no idea where you or the phone was."  
  
It was all self-delusion, he realized later. It was when he was walking back from the power station, when he'd come to the realization that she was alive. He realized all the staring he'd done at her unchanging twitter, all of the obsessing over the code in her phone---it wasn't because he wanted to solve the puzzle of the phone. He wanted a reminder that the Woman was alive and out there. He _liked_ seeing her saucy and occasionally completely inappropriate comments appear on his phone, and he liked seeing her out there.  
  
It was such a shocking revelation, he nearly walked into a hostage situation unprepared when he arrived home.  
  
"Try," he says, offering the tin again.  
  
  
A smile tugs at her lips at his answer to her question. She had guessed, of course, that he would do research, but she hadn't expected him to follow her Twitter. Not to the point of being able to comment on hashtags.   
  
It's a pleasant surprise, even his claim that he had no idea where she had been. They both knew she'd given him enough clues. Sometimes.  
  
She waves away the offer of the tin and begins pulling her tangled, dirty hair into a braid, combing through the snarls to avoid another offer. "I'll eat when you do."  
  
She _may_ be counting on his stubbornness to avoid her weakness.  
  
  
He hasn't eaten in two days, either. Possibly longer, now that he thinks about it. He never eats when he's on a case, or when he's chasing someone. He has no appetite, and thinks that eating right now will simply slow him down. What if they need to run? What if his digestion just ends up taking up too much time, or he---  
  
No, that is what she's counting on. His own stubbornness. He scowls, and takes a bite from the tin, before handing it to her.  
  
"I lived with John Watson for eighteen months," he says. "You can't possibly be more manipulative about food than he can."  
  
  
She smirks at his scowl, but it quickly disappears when he takes a bite and hands the tin over, and she gives the beans a look of distaste. She shouldn't be surprised that he'd cave, and if she were to admit it to herself, she might realize she isn't, not after everything, but she doesn't, because it is something that doesn't bear thinking about, not at the moment.  
  
Irene stops what she is doing with her hair and the half-finished braid begins to unravel as she takes the tin, poking the spoon around and taking a small bite.  
  
Beans are familiar, bringing to mind holidays and fry ups in the country as a child but Irene focuses for the moment on chewing and swallowing and handing the tin back.   
  
She wants to say that she doesn't care about food, that she is better at manipulating about other things. But instead she eyes him, and the words that come out are, "How many orderlies did you go through at the hospital?"  
  
She suspects given the way he found himself in their care, he'd have been particularly abusive.   
  
  
"It doesn't matter," he says. "There wasn't really a lot of time spent trapped in that room once I realized you'd been taken."  
  
In fact, he had one porter try to stop him, but ended up with a broken nose. Convenient, though. His clothing was only a little lose on Sherlock's frame. He also had a car.  
  
"Nurses, however," he says. "They were more difficult, considering they were the ones administering sedatives on a fairly regular basis."  
  
  
She doesn't apologize for the nurses. After all, she _isn't_ sorry for the deception, and she knew he wouldn't expect her to. But a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth anyway.  
  
"They wouldn't have had to if you hadn't been a difficult patient."  
  
  
"I wouldn't have had to be a difficult patient if there wasn't the story my _wife_ decided to tell them," he says. He takes the spoon from the tin of beans and takes another small bite. His concern is unfortunately probably obvious at this point. He never eats on a case. He puts the spoon back in the tin and nods to it.  
  
"I don't think my behavior was important at all."  
  
  
The only thing that keeps her from wishing he'd be stubborn enough to stop eating is the knowledge that he's concerned enough to swallow his pride. And perhaps the knowledge that he needs it almost as much as she does.   
  
Maybe.  
  
She takes a sip of water, instead. "You were being difficult even before we got to the hospital."  
  
  
"I wasn't the one who might bleed to death," he snaps. "If you had known I was taking you to a hospital---"  
  
No. No, he refuses to let himself become controlled by emotions. He thinks before he feels, that is what keeps him safe. The Woman, she keeps making him feel first, and that is very frustrating. He shouldn't let himself feel frustrated. Or afraid for her. Or--anything at all. It should all be so much simpler than this.  
  
"Hardly matters."  
  
  
"I wasn't the one with shards of glass in my feet," she counters. She doesn't touch the food again, instead returning to her earlier task of pulling her hair back into some manageable form.   
  
A part of her is glad he's here and as much like himself as always, seemingly without having caused too much harm to himself with his own stiff-necked pride.  
  
"Because you'll insist I leave for Australia again? Haven't you realized it isn't going to happen?"  
  
  
"Of course not," he says, voice calm and collected. "Clearly whatever they've got planned has you linked with me. It would be idiotic to separate at this point."

  
He sighs at her stubbornness. There's no denying that she's unbelievably like him in that, at least.  
  
  
She is honestly, genuinely surprised by his answer, and she betrays that surprise with a slight widening of the eyes and silence that stretches too long. She finishes pulling her hair back in a long, tangled braid and ties it back with the ripped hem from her dress skirt.  
  
Either the single mouthful of food, the time, or the nearly normal company (or a combination of all three) has left Irene feeling better, marginally more like herself, so she turns and rests her feet back on the deck, making a move to stand again. She's careful to keep her hand against the wall, in case she needs to brace herself again.  
  
"Your efforts at persuasion could use a little work, Mr. Holmes."  
  
  
"There isn't any persuasion necessary, Woman," he says. "You don't intend to leave."  
  
He looks over to the Woman as she stands again, and he finds himself immediately standing to assist her, should she fall. It's irritating, how many times he finds himself doing something rather than simply doing them. He does not thrive on simple actions, his actions are _always_ premeditated.  
  
She irritates him because of this.  
  
"And I did promise you a trip somewhere where there is sunshine."  
  
  
"On the contrary. I have every intention of leaving Hong Kong as soon as feasible," she answers. She knows she is deliberately misconstruing his words, but she doesn't feel like pretending she _is_ planning on leaving and she still feels like she should be contrary about _something_.  
  
She's fairly steady as she makes her way on bare feet over to the kitchenette, her hand resting almost casually on the back of a leather seat as support. She ignores the canned food laid in as supplies and instead digs around until she finds a box of tea, which she tossed onto the narrow counter.   
  
A part of her notes that the yacht is far too well appointed and well stocked for a simple fishing trip. "I generally make it a rule not to stay very long in cities where I end up kidnapped."  
  
  
"Three times, if I'm right," he says. "Including Karachi."  
  
This is, in fact, a wild guess. There is no basis behind the assumption, though if he is correct, it will look terribly impressive. And he is, after all, an unapologetic showoff.  
  
It's the tea that he notices first. English tea. English tea in a Chinese vessel. Expensive if imported, though Sherlock gets the impression that there's more than just that. He leans down to the drawer under the bed and opens it. His eyes go a little wide, and he promptly closes it.  
  
"We'll have to figure out a way to get to an airport."  
  
  
"Marseilles didn't count," she answers promptly, almost before she realizes what he's said.   
  
She doesn't notice him looking under the bed, but the sound of the drawer closing catches her attention and she turns, taking in the sudden, minute changes in his body language, her eyebrows furrowing.  
  
"They'll follow if we try to leave now."  
  
  
"If they can find us, I'll be especially impressed," he says. It's false bravado, and he's absolutely certain the Woman won't fall for it. All the same, it's far better than thinking of them as being so exposed and in danger.  
  
"You need to rest," he says. "We may not have a lot of time for that once we've begun to move."  
  
  
She simply arches an eyebrow at his words and rummages around the kitchenette until she finds a kettle and a pair of mugs. A few more moments and she's managed to start water boiling for tea. She's terrible in the kitchen; it was one of the more practical things that recommended Kate, back in Belgravia, but tea she can manage. And only after she's started the kettle does Irene sit back down in one of the chairs.   
  
"I've done nothing but rest and pretend to be unconscious for the last two days," she points out. Well, aside from her first attempt at escape, but she omits that part. She dislikes admitting to having failed in that. She turns her attention back on him. "You said they left a message, what was it?"  
  
  
He reaches into his pocket and produces a black lotus, shaped out of origami. He holds it out to her.  
  
"It's what they include with those they've killed. Or those they plan to kill. It's not the same one, that one I had torn apart and used for chemical evidence."  
  
The ring is tucked away in his pocket, to be pulled out later. The ring was how he knew for certain it was the Woman they had taken. His own reaction to her loss was---it was---  
  
He steps over to the kitchenette and starts preparing tea . He is not taking care of her, he tells himself. He is simply making tea, which he wants anyway.  
  
  
She'd call it being overconcerned, if she had to, but would never call it being taken care of. She has admitted too much weakness as it is, after all.  
  
Irene takes the origami lotus from his hand, with a minimal amount of trembling, and frowns as she examines it. Thick, distinctive paper. Intricate folding pattern. "This wasn't the only thing, was it?" she points out. "Chemical evidence would only have given you where this came from, who touched it."  
  
  
He sighs. She's far too good at this. It makes keeping secrets difficult. Not impossible, mind. Simply difficult.  
  
He pulls out the ring, which he also places into her hand. He considers holding her hand, in case the trembling is caused by her being cold. But ultimately, he decides against that.  
  
"In case I misunderstood them," he says.  
  
  
The weight of the ring is heavy in the palm of her hand, and when she turns it to examine it, the way the light plays off its facets is familiar, exactly as she had left it. No new scratches or dents or dimples in the soft gold from being examined or experimented on.

  
She can see it in her mind's eye. The paper lotus and the ring, left in the hospital. Not with his things, that would take too long. On the bedside table, perhaps. It would have been immediately noticed, there. Then the chemical analysis on the paper he had already confessed to.   
  
This particular train of thought jogs her memory of less than an hour ago.  
  
 _But I_ wouldn't _. Never._  
  
It is too easy to see him coming to Hong Kong, too easy to imagine him standing on the street overlooking the harbour, looking for the precise yacht with its blacked out windows...  
  
And as much as Irene professed to liked to know people would be on her side exactly when she needed them to be, this new knowledge was uncomfortable in its intimacy, uncomfortable in her own knowledge that she didn't _want_ to take advantage of it.  
  
The water in the kettle is boiling, and she sets the paper lotus on the table before rising from her seat. The ring finds its way, almost unconsciously, onto the fourth finger of her right hand as she rises. "A bit heavyhanded," she remarks, forcing levity into her voice. "But then they were disorganized."  
  
  
"Obviously," he says. "Once they had you, they didn't know what to do with you."

  
He shakes his head. "I've got it." Not taking care of her, he reminds himself. "You'll make it all wrong."  
  
Yes, of course. This is the reason. He is making the tea for himself, not for her. If he happens to pour two cups, that's simply because it's convenient not to waste hot water.  
  
  
Her lips thin in momentary annoyance at his words, and she nearly rises to the bait. Nearly. Because the memory of his vehemence is echoing in her mind and the fact that he is still here...  
  
She shakes her head, as if to clear the thought away, and sits back down. "What was in the drawer?" she asks instead. Changing the subject, but continuing the conversation, because silence, at the moment, is not preferable.  
  
  
He looks back to her and lets out a short, annoyed huff.  
  
To John Watson, this would've been an easy sign that he didn't want to continue the conversation. To the Woman, he imagines he's going to have to finish speaking.  
  
"The reason we have to leave. They'll be coming back for it."  
  
  
The annoyance is, at least, familiar, and her lips curve into a smug involuntary smile in response. "You're being evasive again."  
  
She doesn't bother pointing out that making tea was hardly conducive to leaving.  
  
  
Sherlock clears his throat, and pours a little milk into her tea, before bringing it over to her.  
  
"About two hundred thousand pounds worth of cocaine," he says. "This was not the right sort of yacht to take."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, Lyra will be at the Meet the Fan Authors event at [Sherlock Seattle](http://sherlock-seattle.org/) October 4-6, 2013, and would love to say hello!
> 
> As a result of Sherlock Seattle, Chapter 5 of _DTaH: The Waters of the Fragrant Harbour_ will either be posted early (this Thursday October 4) or delayed until Tuesday (October 8).


	5. The Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The yacht that had been their temporary asylum now a liability full of drugs, Irene and Sherlock must find another way across Hong Kong Harbour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter of _Death Takes A Holiday: The Waters of the Fragrant Harbour_ is being put up a few days early due to [Sherlock Seattle](http://www.sherlock-seattle.org/) this weekend, and we expect it would be more appreciated to have it up early than late. The next chapter will be up at its usual time, on 13/14 October 2013.
> 
> And as always, if any readers plan to be at Sherlock Seattle this weekend, please do come say hello to Lyra!

It is hard to say whether she is more surprised by the fact that he answers or the answer itself. Probably the former.  
  
She wraps her fingers around the mug, its warmth steadying her. "Not exactly the fishing expedition I was led to expect," she comments before taking a sip. "Though it does explain the interior."

 

"And why we've been avoided by every other boat since we left the harbor," he says. "I expect they know whose boat this is. And we were meant to, but---didn't."  
  
It's probably of fairly high quality, his mind informs him. It's not important, though. They have a lot more to deal with than--- _that_.

 

She takes a slow sip of the tea, as she watches him over the rim of the mug. There is a touch too much milk in it, but the warm drink is restorative. It is the familiar in an unfamiliar place, a reminder of more comfortable surroundings than the current eddies of unexpected honesty and emotion they danced through.  
  
She discards the idea of using the drugs to fund their escape. Too dangerous, too much potential liability. "We can't all be as well-versed in Triad vessels as the locals," she says, almost distractedly. "If we can make it over the side out of sight...No, they'll expect us to be alive and keep looking."

 

"And with the police working with them, it won't be long until this ship is recognized as the one that we're on," he says. He takes a sip of his own tea before looking over to the Woman.  
  
"So, we've got police and an international gang of smugglers after us, along with probably a drug cartel of some sort, and we've got no money, no weapons, and you're still pushing out whatever drug they've pumped into your system," he says. "We're both running on multiple days without sleep and food."  
  
He sniffs. "John Watson would have a very good term for what we are right now," he says, smirking. " _Fucked._ "

 

His words actually provoke a laugh. Tinged with gallows humour, possibly, but a genuine laugh all the same. She takes another sip from her mug, and contemplates the room.  
  
"And here I was thinking it was a challenge," she answers. "Or is it my turn to provide a daring rescue?"

 

"No," Sherlock replies. "But a decent idea might be helpful."

 

The idea's already taking shape in her mind, and if she'd stepped back, been less tired or less impaired, the idea _might_ have seemed risky, even idiotic, perhaps.  
  
Or it might not have. After all, it was bold and hard to miss.  
  
"There's a small stove, likely gas powered," she says, gesturing towards the kitchenette. Irene _feels_ more like herself now, less focused on the myriad ways in which her body was refusing to cooperate and more on the misbehavior at hand. "Propane, butane. Leaks are rare but not unheard of."

 

"Simply starting the yacht could set of a disastrous series of events," he agrees.

  
Although for others it may be inappropriate, but Sherlock feels a sudden spike of arousal shoot through him as he watches her make her plan. As he watches her become more Irene Adler.  
  
He will not let anyone hurt her. That sudden wave of protectiveness comes unbidden, and he decides to ignore it. Of course he won't let anyone hurt her. That would be idiotic.  
  
"And where would we go?"

 

She takes a long sip from the mug of tea, as if simply to draw out the moment. In reality she needs the time to think, to _remember_ what that lovely little diplomat had told her. The fact that the woman had apparently given the Black Lotus information on Irene factors into her thinking, but she uses the information still.  
  
After all, it's the best she has, at the moment.  
  
"We're too obvious to hide in the city proper," she answers. She'd made that mistake last time, when they'd caught her after her initial attempt to escape, in Central. They cannot stay _long_ , that too was obvious. But somewhere where they could regroup. Rest. A few days, at the least.  
  
Somewhere used to foreigners, where they wouldn't be quite as obvious. Used to wealthy foreigners, where they wouldn't be questioned. The name comes in a flash. "The Peninsula Hotel, across the harbour. It's used to foreigners. It shouldn't be difficult to convince one of the boat people to cross the harbour if we slipped into their boat."

 

"It shouldn't be too difficult to tell if they can be trusted," he agrees. "Considering my skills with observation and your ability to tell what they'll _like_."  
  
The plan is relatively weak in comparison to others, but it _will_ work. They'll trap the boat, and then find their way out of here. Get to the hotel, get her more to eat and more rest. He's worried about her falling right now. No, not worried. _Concerned_. Worried, he reminds himself, requires emotional involvement which he refuses to have.  
  
Attempts not to have.  
  
"Do you have any contacts nearby?"

 

A thought occurs to Irene, and she sets the nearly empty mug of tea down before rising and beginning a slow circuit of the lower deck. Drugs under the bed, which logically meant there would be weapons nearby, for protection, but that would hardly do them any good if they have to make a quick exit into the harbour, though she cringes internally at the thought.  
  
But there should be other things in the yacht. Insurance, things that could be used for bribery and suggesting officials look the other way. Things that were untraceable...  
  
"Fewer than I'd like, if the diplomat is as involved as you think," she admits as she continues the slow circuit.  
  
Her fingers trail along a wood panel on the far side of the boat, the amethyst ring winking in the tastefully subdued lighting, and she stops. There's a subtle difference in the feel of the wood, and she taps a finger against it.  
  
She sounds distracted by the wall panel as she continues, "But there should be one or two left who owe a favour, if I make a few phone calls."  
  
More than a few phone calls.

 

He gives a slow nod.  
  
"There's also---"  
  
No, no, that's not an option. However, Mycroft's influence could change things. But he tells himself he'd rather let everything fall and crumble than go back to Mycroft. Mycroft would want control of all of this. He'd want---it doesn't matter what he'd want.  
  
And what he might do to the Woman---it's hardly worth it.  
  
"In the morning," he says. "I'll keep us moving throughout the night."

 

She is momentarily too focused on the softer, hollower sound of the wood panel to notice his aborted comment. Her fingers run along the panel, and a jab at the upper right hand corner, where the seam can be seen, pops the panel out of the bulkhead. Behind it is a safe: expensive, electronic, with a keypad.  
  
She pauses in her scrutiny of it to turn back to him, though, at his suggestion. "You're hardly in any shape to function for another twelve, fourteen hours," she points out. She tells herself that it's only concern for her personal safety that makes her point it out. "It'd be better to make it to the Peninsula sooner rather than later."  
  
  
"You're still recovering from whatever they've poisoned you with," he says. "I'll be better to---"  
  
The safe appears, and Sherlock leans over her shoulder.  
  
"Oh, rubber keypad, makes everything a bit easier," he says. "Remember?"

 

Between the tea and the passage of time, with something to occupy her mind, she feels better, at least for the moment. It still hurt to draw too deep a breath, but that wasn't pressing, in fact it helps, to keep focused.  
  
A smile tugs at her lips at his observation, and she shifts to allow him a better view, the motion brushing her shoulder against him, unconsciously bringing her closer. "How could I forget? Seven as the first digit, but there's still five to go."

 

"Hmm."  
  
He notices her shoulder against him. He knows there're easier ways to find the code to this safe. He could look around the room, notice little things. He could work out what the person who owns the yacht might've thought, but that would require moving. And right now, he wants to stay perfectly still next to her and just--- _impress_.  
  
At least a little bit.  
  
He reaches over to a small jar of artificial sweetener, which he unscrews and gently blows on. The sticky, sweet powder lands on the keys, especially thick on a few.  
  
"Six digit code."

 

The fine powder is heaviest on the 7, first digit. But other numbers pick up traces as well, 1, 4, most heavily. A little less so: 5, 8. Another smudge of white clings to a spot just to the left of the 1 on the pad, a thumb resting, perhaps.  
  
"Hardly likely to be measurements," she murmurs. Her smile deepens, because he has not moved away. "Go on, impress a girl."  
  
He did bring up the memory of her safe first.

 

He could simply guess. With a safe like this, considering the lack of trouble here, it's not likely that it will be trapped the way that the Woman's was. No, he'd have more than one chance to go through, and he'd work out the code fairly quickly.  
  
But she said _impress._ That spike of arousal shoots through him again and suddenly, his mind begins slicing through different parts of the ship.  
  
Ship name. Ship layout. Bedroom, foodstuffs. All of the things that could---  
  
Wait. He turns his head back. The liquor, right next to the tea. A single-malt whisky sits, unusual considering their origin in Hong Kong. Must be specialty, then. Especially ordered. Malt 77, 27 years old. Right at eye level. Something that matters.  
  
Sherlock looks back at the pad and types in.  
  
7\. 7. 1. 9. 8. 5.

 

The lock on the safe disengages with a quiet but solid thud of metal, and Irene gives him a sidelong look, impressed. Not enough to threaten to have him on the table, but impressed nonetheless. "If I asked, would you tell me it was painfully obvious?" she asks, reaching for the lock to door to open the safe.  
  
She doesn't expect a trap, but she steps aside, nudging him out of the way with her as she does so, and swings the door open slowly.  
  
Inside the safe is a sheaf of papers, some of them yellowed, others water-damaged. A small velvet pouch, holding a quantity of modestly priced cut diamonds. At first glance, there's nothing else inside.

 

"Too complex a safe for something so simple," he says, shaking his head.  
  
He nods to the Woman.  
  
"Your turn."


	6. Salt and Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the yacht solved, the implications of their continued dependence on each other become harder and harder for Irene and Sherlock to ignore. But great minds are also capable of great delusions...

She arches an eyebrow and, despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the vivid bruise along her cheek, she looks utterly self-assured, very much herself. Lack of food or unknown drugs in her system were things that paled in comparison to the game, to the balanced power play.  
  
Irene barely glances at the papers. Permits of varied age and dubious validity for the yacht in question. The diamonds were interesting. Small enough to hide, but of enough value to be used as bribes. Of middling quality so that their presence would not cause _too_ much of an interest in the market.  
  
She weighs the small pouch of them in her hand thoughtfully. Still, there isn't enough of them, not given what he said about how much cocaine the boat carried, not given the security. Her brow furrows, and Irene reaches into the safe again, her fingers running along the interior.  
  
 _There_. A faint ridge along the bottom edge, the metal ever so slightly raised. Not often used, but the sign of a false bottom nonetheless. She pries it up with a fingernail, and reaches into the space.  
  
"Well _this_ is a surprise," she murmurs, pulling out a CIA badge with the photo of a dark haired woman. Her features spoke of some Asian descent but the name on the badge is (perhaps intentionally) Western.  
  
Irene examines it with interest, testing the thickness, the weight of the badge. "Well done fake or an undercover operative?"

 

"Operative," he says. "They'd be less paranoid to hide a fake. A fake is one thing, but this----no, this was hidden. Far more dangerous, could get more people killed. Or turned in, which could be far worse for them."  
  
He reaches out to take the badge.  
  
"I wonder just how far dear old Jim was extending their reach."

 

She keeps a hold on the badge for a second longer than necessary, a slight holding back, before letting him have it and stepping away from the safe in the same motion. "Not satisfied with 'far enough'?" she asks as she crosses the yacht's interior.   
  
She avoids the drawers beneath the bed, but opens other cabinets until she finds exactly what she's looking for, a small cabinet serving as a closet. The woman on the badge isn't exactly her size, but close enough that Irene can find a pair of pants and a shirt.   
  
The diamonds end up in one of the pants pockets, and she strips off her dress without hesitation. That was going to burn with the rest of the yacht, if she had her way. Bruises are scattered across her body beneath the dress, though the only one of any lividity is one at her side, along her ribs.   
  
She doesn't linger, reaching to pull on the shirt she'd found. "The badge may be useful in getting out of the city."

 

"It will send up red flags to them later," he says. This is true, but it doesn't _really_ matter. The only thing that matters is that they get out and---  
  
He looks up and sees the Woman undressed again. Though this time, when his eyes look over her body he only sees the dark, mottled bruises. His mind places what objects would hit where or what fists must have made those injuries. Immediately, the faces of the people within the Black Lotus that he knows appear in his mind, and he begins to categorize what he will do to them once he gets a hold of them.  
  
He's going to kill them.  
  
He nods to her, looking at the bruise against her ribs. "Who did that?"

 

She doesn't answer until she's pulled the shirt on, and even then her attention is on dressing, on the welcome feel of clothes cool and clean against her skin. The shirt doesn't hide the stitches from Las Vegas, and Irene idly muses that she's collecting scars more quickly now than she had ever before.  
  
"Does it matter? I thought the point was to _avoid_ the Black Lotus."

 

"For you, yes," he says, and he realizes very quickly that he's slipping out of control again, that he's acting before he's thinking. Talking before he's acting. "For me, it's not as great a priority."  
  
Right now, his entire being is focused on breaking the things that damaged the Woman. The muscles in his hands hurt, and he realizes he's gripping them into fists so hard that his knuckles poke out sharply, white against a ring of red.

 

The pants are ill-fitting but they're clean and that's all that matters at this point, and only when she's fully clothed again does Irene turn to see the tension in the line of his body, in the white knuckled grip he's holding.  
  
"And what happened to not separating?" she asks. "Besides, I expect you gave that officer far worse than a bruised rib."  
  
The officer who, in fact, had been the one to deal that blow, when she'd made her first abortive attempt at escape.

 

The Woman doesn't understand. In his mind, it is impossible to relate his world without her in it. By injuring her, the Black Lotus has injured his world. Therefore, they have declared war on his world. Which is fine. They don't deserve to live anyway.  
  
He imagines expressing this to her would be Not Good. Or at the very least, difficult. So he turns away and heads up the stairs without a word, straight-backed and still stiff with rage.

 

She is, by nature, manipulative and vindictive, and the idea of dealing the gang back in kind should have, _would have,_ appealed. But if she'd known his thoughts on the reasoning why, she might have punched him herself, with little guarantee that she'd avoid his nose and teeth.  
  
Irene realizes that her current state, relatively free of the ill effects of the tranquilizers and the lack of food and drink, is likely temporary. That she's running, for the moment, on having a plan, on focused action. And if that was to continue, she needed him to not suddenly decide he needed to go off on some irrational crusade.  
  
So she swallows a curse and follows him up the stairs and back onto the deck. She squints in the bright sun and eyes the harbour around them. A cluster of fishermen and residential boats drift sedately to their port, giving them a wide berth, but Irene expects that's their best bet, and she heads for the wheel, with every intention of continuing _her_ plan.  
  
She'll drag him by the hair if necessary.

 

Sherlock sits on the other end of the deck, watching the water. It's beautiful, really. The way the light hits it and it sparkles against the horizon. He knows so little about this part of the world. Anything he learned he deleted because it was unnecessary, and now he wishes he could've kept more of it. At least, he thinks, he can register it as beautiful.  
  
He thinks about the Woman. He thinks about the cold, numb feeling inside on the flight to Hong Kong, how he was only 75% certain she was still alive. That additional 25% was horrified and frightened. It was that 25% that controlled his shaking hands as he opened the door to where they were keeping her.  
  
This problem, this thing he has been avoiding between himself and the Woman, it's their fault. The Black Lotus's fault. Not so much because they _created_ the problem, but by nearly taking the Woman from him, it forced him to acknowledge it. Like a lisp or a social awkwardness, it's unimportant until acknowledged. Now, it's there. Big and forced and unmovable. He does not want the world to exist without her.  
  
The boat turns. Sherlock leaps to his feet and heads over to the wheel.  
  
"Where are you going?"

 

The air is heavy with humidity, not surprising given the sheer amount of water surrounding them, and when she draws a breath Irene can smell sea salt and petrol, along with the acrid bite of cigarettes. Logically, she knows it is from the cluster of old men she can see sitting along the bow of one of the old boats, wisps of white-blue smoke curling around their hands. But a part of her is relaxed by the faint scent carried on the breeze, recognizes it as something almost familiar.  
  
She doesn't make the connection yet that it is because she's already associated the smell of cigarettes as part of Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe she is simply denying it.  
  
But she guides the yacht with a steady, knowing hand. It isn't the first time she's ~~stolen~~ ~~borrowed~~ steered a watercraft this size. She eases back on the throttle as well, making it seem more a guided drift.

"To terrify the locals," she answers. She nods towards the cluster of boats that they are now slowly nearing. "They're the only people who might be able to get us somewhere other than 'drowned' or 'caught,' after all."

 

"My Mandarin is not even remotely passable," he admits unashamedly. Better since the last time he dealt with the Black Lotus, but it never really occurred to him to become proficient. After all, when would he go to China or Hong Kong? Never, he had assumed.  
  
"No one on those vessels speak English, otherwise they'd have tossed a chat-up line in your direction already."

 

"And mine is unintelligible. But I expect them to be able to understand a diamond and a pointed at direction," she retorts.   
  
They are not close enough to actually terrify anyone, not at the slow drift she's set the yacht on, but their orientation allows Irene a better look at the boats. Her expression is critical as her eyes look over and dismisses various boats.   
  
Fishermen too old to take well to strangers. A boat too dilapidated to make it across the rest of the harbour without the others keeping it from being washed away by the waves. She catches sight of a flash of bright pink vinyl, a toy of some sort, and Irene nods at a boat, a shallow bottomed vessel that looked more like a traditional junk than the others.   
  
"That one. Unless you're going to come up with another reason why I shouldn't pay them a visit."

 

He looks across at the boat. All the signs point to safe, he thinks. Child toys, women's clothes. These aren't the sort of people to kill two non-natives in front of their families. But---no, there's something else. A bulge in one man's pockets. Weapons.  
  
"They'll do," he says, though he doesn't say precisely why. "I'll get the gas ready."

 

She gives him a look, surprised by his lack of disagreement. But for the moment Irene doesn't press. There'll be time later, when they're back on solid ground, to wonder what had changed his mind.   
  
A few of the more paranoid boats begin to shift away as they near, but a few simply watch as the yacht approaches, and Irene tries to steer so that the bulk of the yacht is between the boat with the children's toys and the others. The more people who could confirm that they had been on the yacht, the better.  
  
She works the throttle, letting the engine sputter audibly, then kills it. The yacht drifts, and Irene feigns trying to restart it before she leaves the wheel.  
  
"The trick will be getting onboard without anyone from the others noticing," she muses. "I was hoping a swim wouldn't be necessary."

 

He goes downstairs and takes the remainder from the safe---the papers---wrapping them up and putting them in his coat pocket. He then goes to where the cocaine is being held and double-wraps a smaller bag in plastic and puts it into his other pocket.  
  
No use in wasting it all, after all.  
  
The Woman's state, Sherlock remembers, is not made for swimming _anywhere_ right now. She's underfed, needs to be hydrated and rest. They still don't know what was in those darts that hit her. But staying on this yacht, while comfortable, will probably get them both killed. When he gets up, he hears her mentioning getting onboard.  
  
"I'll swim over first," he says. "Get them to move over to get you." It will cause some notice, but doubtful it would cause _too much_ notice.

 

"That's far too obvious," she answers immediately. "If a boat comes too close they'll assume we've left." It was a very thin hope, she knew, that the Black Lotus would assume they'd died in the resultant explosion. Thin, but hopefully enough to create some confusion, some hesitation.  
  
She kneels by the cover hiding the yacht's powertrain and opens it, as if trying to check or repair something. She's obviously focused on the tenuous plan at hand. "I hope you can spare a cigarette for a fuse. It'll be easier to make it into the water before the gas catches if I've got a minute or two."

 

He looks back at her, and pulls out a cigarette to light it. He takes a drag.  
  
"If you lose ground, I won't go back and save you," he lies.

 

She rises again, and finds a canister of gasoline, carefully dribbling a line of it down the stairs and into deck below. A few more minutes to let the gas permeate the hold should be enough.   
  
She returns, and gives him an irritated look. "I'm not a damsel in distress who requires constant saving, Mr. Holmes," she reminds him.

 

Sherlock watches the gas dribble down the hold, a slight smirk twitching at his lips. He takes another drag of the cigarette.  
  
"Go on," he says. "I'll be right behind you."

 

She rises, ignoring the now-familiar tug of pain at her side as she draws a breath, and reaches up to take the cigarette from his lips.   
  
"Following isn't very conducive to leaving me to fall behind."

 

He pulls it back.  
  
"No, but it'll make certain you get away before anything happens," he says. "Don't argue, just _go_."  
  
His voice is firm, but sincere.

 

"Since when has telling me not to do something ever worked in your favour?" she asks without any real heat or irritation. She reaches for the cigarette again.   
  
"I'll go as soon as you give me a fuse to prime this with."

 

"I'll prime it," he says. "I'm hardly incompetent, Woman."  
  
She's just being difficult, now. Stubborn, like he can be. It's at once immensely attractive and unbelievably annoying.

 

"Usually not, but you _have_ been irrational."   
  
She doesn't say protective, though the thought occurs to her. It is easier to ignore it, to chalk things up to him being stubborn and irrational and arrogant and even chauvinistic than to think about that. Instead, she just reaches for him, her fingers closing around the lit cigarette.

 

Has he? He supposes he has. But if she lights that fuse, she'll ruin everything he's put into place since they discovered the occupants of the boat. The safe, the gas stoves, the starter on the yacht. All of it. And she'll take his cigarette and ruin it all.  
  
So, he does what he thinks will distract. Divert. Take her attention away.  
  
"I love you."  
  
The words are said without even a hint of honesty, but he follows up the statement with a deep, passionate kiss. Should her fingers release on the cigarette, he'll pull it away. And should her footing become anything less than sturdy, he'll push her over the edge.

 

She remembers Las Vegas too well to believe it, and the denial is already on her lips.  
  
"No you d--"  
  
But she doesn't expect the kiss, and it is enough to startle her into loosening her grip. Even more irritating, it's enough to push her off balance, crack the armour of mental focus that's keeping her steady.  
  
She feels her feet slip, and a thought coalesces, crystal clear, before she hits the water.  
  
She is going to kill him.


	7. Safe Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drenched and adrift in Hong Kong Harbour, Irene and Sherlock must find a place to go to ground before the toll of the past few days on their bodies catches up to them.

She's not going to like that. He looks overboard to make certain she hasn't hit anything, and then he turns back around, pulling the cigarette lighter out of his pocket and taking the metal pin out of its casing. He slips it into the ignition of the yacht, and slips the key loosely in after it.  
  
One good push on that will set a spark. Anyone on board will be killed.  
  
He pulls something else out of his pocket. A black lotus oragami flower. He dashes back downstairs and puts it into the safe, which he leaves just a crack open before going back to the edge of the boat.  
  
In his mind's eye, he can see it: The drug smugglers hopping on board. One of them goes to see where the petrol has come from. One of them goes downstairs. Someone says that cocaine is missing. Someone goes to check and see if the engine is still running. The one downstairs will go to the safe. He will push it open and see the flower. The person on deck will start the yacht.  
  
In one smooth move, he dives off of the edge of the boat after the Woman.

 

The water is warmer than she'd expected. The smell of petrol is stronger too, no doubt from all the motorized boats that move through the harbour, and the salt stings her eyes. But mostly Irene focuses on the fact that he'd pushed her in with an unrepentant cheap trick.  
  
She's already made it a third of the way to the boat before she hears a second splash, and she pauses long enough to see him surface. When she's certain he hasn't managed to kill himself before she did it for him, she continues making her way towards the boat with the pink vinyl toy, staying as quiet and unobtrusive as she can as she pulls herself up and over the side to wait for him.  
  
The thought of pushing him back over is infinitely appealing.

 

He's only mildly weighed down by his coat and how little he's eaten and slept in the last few days. Rest would not go amiss, he tells himself, though he's certain he has at least another 12 hours before he's likely to be affected by it. Possibly. He had to sell his watch, so it's all a matter of relevance.  
  
He makes it to the other boat not long after the Woman does, but he stops before climbing aboard.  
  
"You weren't listening to me," he says, clearly unrepentant.

 

Water is cascading off of her despite the fact that the swim over had been relatively short. The activity is stressing her body and she knows she will feel the effects shortly, but for the moment she is far too angry to recognize it. If she is shaking it is solely because of the anger.  
  
"You weren't saying anything rational," she shot back, though she at least remembers to keep her voice down.

 

"Yes, I was, _you_ were simply being too difficult to listen to _any_ of it," he snaps back, his voice also a low hiss. He reaches for the edge of the boat to pull himself up.  
  
"Have you thought about what the consequences of you setting that fuse could've been if you couldn't swim out fast enough?"

 

She resists the urge to kick him back into the harbour. After all, at that moment it would just make him slip. Hardly satisfying. She'll wait for him to at least get his feet on the deck.  
  
"Have you thought that maybe I knew exactly how much time I would need to get clear and would have set it accordingly?"

 

"And have you thought that maybe I saw your fuse and knew it was too short for you to get clear of it?" he snaps back. His feet get onto the deck. Not much longer before someone notices they're on board.

 

"And instead of saying so you decide the best way of solving that particular problem is to push me overboard?"  
  
She's watching him closely enough that the moment his feet are on the deck, she plants her arms on his chest and pushes.

 

Sherlock gets his footing just as her arms go against his chest. He falls back with a a cry and slight flail, and his arm smacks loudly against the side of the boat as he falls in. He hears something crack as he hits the warm, dirty water. More importantly, he hears someone shout from the boat.  
  
 _Stupid_ Woman.  
  
He gets to the surface just in time to see a man with a gun approaching the opposite side of the deck. Old. Clearly frightened.  
  
"Woman!"

 

For once the utter ordinariness that their rows make them seem may work in their favour, and Irene schools her expression to one of contrition despite the anger. There's no point in explaining things to the man, not in any depth or detail, so Irene merely gestures to the yacht, then to Sherlock, and pantomimes being pushed.  
  
She sprinkles a few words in English into the explanation, though even without the words it is abundantly clear her intent. That the flailing man in the water was an obvious idiot who had pushed the poor sodden woman standing on the old man's boat overboard and really she was _dreadfully_ sorry they were bothering him.

 

Sherlock sees her gesticulations, and while he may think the whole thing is stupid, he's not going to contradict her. It could put them in a whole lot more danger than if he just went along with what she's saying. He attempts to climb up the edge again, but the man seems very concerned about having him on board.  
  
"I'm certain having one more illegal immigrant on their vessel shouldn't be a problem for them," he says. He nods to the passageway and says the word for _illegal_ and _not police_.  
  
He has no idea if they'll get the gist of what he's saying.

 

Irene isn't certain what Sherlock has said, and judging by the way confusion is slowly overtaking the fear on the old man's face, she's fairly certain _he_ isn't certain either. She's about to try again when the old man calls out something, and a thin, young voice responds.  
  
A girl, maybe eight or nine, appears, her eyes wide as the old man speaks rapidly to her in Chinese. She looks from the man, to Irene, to Sherlock, and back to the old man again.  
  
"Grandpa wants to know why you pushed him back in the water," the girl says slowly, carefully. Her English is deliberate, obviously learned, and there is a distinct British bent to it despite her accent. She peers into the water at Sherlock. "Isn't that coat heavy in the water?"

 

"Because she's a very, very silly woman," Sherlock says. He's privately annoyed that a _child_ was going to be translating for them. A child who had fewer cognitive powers than Sherlock held in one finger, and she was able to translate a language he didn't know.  
  
He does manage a little glare at the girl's other question. Of course the coat is heavy, is she truly that stupid?

 

Irene nearly breathes a sigh of relief when the child begins translating. She'd picked this particular boat with its hint of a child onboard specifically in hopes that the child would have some academic experience with English.  
  
"Because he pushed me in first, obviously," she answers. A glance at the old man as the girl nods gravely. He's lowered his weapon, though his grip is still tight on it. Irene gestures into the water. "Can you please ask your grandfather if you can give us a ride to shore?"  
  
The girl nods, and turns back to her grandfather, translating rapidly. Irene takes the opportunity to kneel at the edge of the boat and offer Sherlock a hand.  
  
She doesn't apologize though.

 

Sherlock looks at her hand warily, but still reaches out to take it when he needs the leverage. He is sorely tempted to pull her back into the water after that little stunt, but with their only real chance of getting away from this place translating away, it's important not to look like they're behaving immaturely.  
  
"How are you feeling?" he asks once he's stable on the deck.

 

She can feel the muscles in her arm tremble as she helps lever him out of the water, but Irene ignores it, stepping back as the old man questions the girl.  
  
"Wet," she answers wryly, fishing into her pocket and working one of the diamonds from the now-sodden velvet pouch into her hand. Under her breath, she adds, "You might want to stop looking at the girl as if she were an insect. Might make her more inclined to not dismiss you as a sullen lunatic."  
  
When the old man pauses for a breath, Irene gestures to the girl and shows her the diamond in her palm. "Tell your grandfather that your family can have this if you help us."

 

"You might want to ask the girl why her father has illegal citizens within his hold and his family on board," he replies to the Woman under his breath. "Fear of us tattling on them to the proper authorities might make them more inclined to help us rather than favors."  
  
All the same, when the little girl shows the diamond to the father---grandfather---no, neither (possibly some distant relative, though more likely not at all, the girl's family is in the hold, she's being used for translation), his eyes go a little wide. Not fear, excitement. That's good.

 

At his words she arches an eyebrow in surprise, resisting the urge to try and figure out what had given that away for him.  
  
"Trying to tell me how to best threaten someone to get what I want now?" she murmurs back. There is perhaps a little irritation in her voice, but the majority of her anger had been diffused by the satisfaction of pushing him back overboard.  
  
Childish, perhaps. But she'd always been vindictive.  
  
When the old man nods, and the girl turns back to them, Irene kneels and whispers a few words in her ear. The girl's eyes go wide, and she nods, continuing her stream of translation again, this time stumbling a little with either nerves or fear.  
  
"They can get us to the other side of the harbour in half an hour. Any faster and it will draw attention."

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  
  
"What did you tell her? Clearly it was about me, otherwise you wouldn't have made it quiet." He lets out a short snort of irritation. "Am I an unreasonable patient again, with you as the fearful wife?"

 

Irene takes a seat on the deck of the boat and begins ringing water out of the shirt now clinging to her like a second skin. She waits until the old man, satisfied by whatever the girl has told him, moves away, and the boat begins a slightly more decided drift towards the Kowloon side of the harbour, before speaking.  
  
And when she does, she's switched to French. " _I told her the police will come for the people in the hold. And that I'll give her something to help her be safe from the old man._ "

 

Her French is perfect, as is his when he begins speaking. " _She's got a younger brother in that hold, too. Look at her trouser cuff. That's baby food, she was feeding it to someone. We can't take two children out of this country with us, and I doubt you're sentimental enough to want to._ "  
  
He sits next to her. Should she push him off again, he has little concern about following. All the same, it's not really logical to push him _again_ , she's already proven her point. And he hasn't proven his, though he imagines by the time they make it to the harbor, the other boat will be primed and ready to explode.

 

She scoffs at his response and makes absolutely no move either towards or away as he sits down.  
  
" _Who said anything about taking them? I'll give her another of the diamonds and tell her exactly what it's worth. She's bright enough to translate at her age, I expect she can work out what to do with it._ "  
  
A sidelong look, and she switches back to English. It would make the girl (and the old man) nervous if they couldn't understand the conversation for too long. "Your expectation says more about your sentimentality than mine."

 

"Sentimentality isn't my downfall, Woman," he says, his lips twitching into a smile. One of the only times _he_ defeated _her_ , and he'll never let her forget it. A strange sort of victory, but one he finds himself cherishing whether it's particularly healthy or not.  
  
"We can find a tour bus that can take us up north," he says. "Trying to stay incognito will probably draw more attention to the Black Lotus. Among others."

 

She doesn't bother pointing out that sentimentality had brought him _here_. Because to do so would be to make clear again how intertwined they have become.  
  
So instead Irene merely stares out over the water, drawing her legs up to her chest and resting her chin against her knees. She stays silent for minutes as they edge towards the shore.  
  
"How much of the cocaine did you take from their stores?"

 

He could lie, he thinks. She has no way of knowing he's taken any, and from where he's placed it into his coat, she can't see a bulge. She's simply guessing. It's a good guess, and since she knows _him_ , she knows that any sort of serious offense would mean that he was lying.  
  
He chooses not to insult her intelligence. He rather likes her intelligence, after all. It is, to him, as attractive as the way her clothing clings to her in the breeze.  
  
"Some, should boredom overtake me again." He looks over to her. "Does it matter?"

 

A hint of a smile tugs at her lips at the answer. At the fact that he doesn't deny it. As much as she hates to admit it, she welcomes this momentary lull in activity.  
  
"No. Just something I want to take into account."

 

"Did I promise I wouldn't vanish for several days without warning again?"

 

She turns to look at him, her expression cool. It was hard to muster up arch disdain when she felt distinctly like a recently drowned rat.  
  
"Did I give any indication that I wanted you to?"

 

"Considering how alarmed you were the last time, I thought making such a promise would be something you'd prefer," he says. Her expression is cool, but he gets the feeling that he's very close to touching another sensitive nerve in her system.

 

"Preparing to leave a city is hardly being 'alarmed'."

 

"Yes, fine. Then I shan't bother making any sort of a promise to you."  
  
He gets back to his feet and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. They are, unsurprisingly, soaked from the swim. He scowls and tosses the pack overboard.

 

The package of cigarettes bob along in the boat's wake, and Irene keeps her eye focused on it as she speaks, her voice devoid of nearly all emotion, except a weary sort of affection.  
  
"Don't act wounded just because I don't want a promise I don't expect you to keep, Sherlock."

 

He lets out an annoyed sort of snort. No, he can't keep it and he knows it. It's not the point. She does what she has always done: Befuddled him. Even the affection in her voice right now, it _throws_ him. She's supposed to be furious at him right now. Instead of that, she's--- _affectionate_. It makes no sense.  
  
He may not be capable of empathizing with others, but he can usually anticipate their behavior. The Woman, like John Watson, is unpredictable. Perhaps that is one of the reasons the two of them are so utterly important to him.  
  
" _What do you_ want _, Woman?_ " he asks in their more private French, his voice quiet.

 

"Dry clothes and solid ground beneath my feet," she answers in English, deliberately misinterpreting him.  
  
She enjoys provoking him like this, enjoys seeing the little hints that slip through in the promises that they both know he would never keep, the little fictions that hint at emotion but are nothing as uncomfortable or vulnerable as truly provoked sentiment between them tends to be.  
  
"And possibly a very stiff drink, I haven't decided."

 

"I quite agree on that one."  
  
He's aware that dehydration will become an issue eventually, as will the need for rest. But as of right now, he wants a cigarette and he wants to get to ground. He also wants to understand her, but that---well, that's simply not possible.  
  
There's a shout, and suddenly there's a scream as something on the other end of the harbor explodes.  
  
Sherlock smirks.


	8. Childhood Secrets and Revelations of the Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson's influence on Sherlock Holmes reaches beyond death and sets Sherlock on a course of action that may reveal to the world the continued existence of the late Irene Adler. But will she allow it?

She flinches involuntarily at the force of the explosion across the harbour, and there is a rustle of noise through the boat as the man steering, the young girl, and whoever else was being hidden in the hold, all react to it.  
  
A moment to recover, the realization to dawn. "You wanted someone onboard to ignite it."  
  
  
He remains silent, though he does manage to control his smirk. He sits, looking up at the sky, and _preens_.

  
If only it had been more of the Black Lotus.  
  
  
She's almost tempted to laugh at how pleased he looks with himself, but she doesn't. At the very least it explained his insistence.

"Why?"  
  
The question slips out before she realizes she doesn't actually want to know the answer.  
  
  
"Because of the whiskey," he says. He looks back at her, waiting for recognition. Perhaps it's a bit far for her. Something she wouldn't have noticed.  
  
"Specialty, specifically ordered. I've seen it before."  
  
 _I have three under that name._  
No, we've only reserved two---  
And then I went back and reserved another.  
  
"On the bar of the circus in London, long before you'd have known about the Black Lotus," he says. "Their whole line of alcoholic beverages consisted of whiskey. One specific whiskey. They were so small, so unknown, they didn't need more than that. I might not have noticed, except John decided that if I was to spoil his date, he'd need to go across the street for a pint."  
  
He looks over to her to see if she realizes what he's saying. "Entirely possible that they're not related to the Black Lotus, but the probability leans in that favor."

 

It is the third, or possibly fourth time he's mentioned John Watson without some hint in his voice or expression since the sun-baked desert road in Las Vegas, since she'd seen _exactly_ what the prospect of John Watson's impending marriage was doing. She notices, and tucks the thought of it away.  
  
Almost imperceptible tension leeches out of the set of her body, at the curve of her spine, at the answer. "It does make it less likely that they'll think we were on board when it exploded, you do realize."  
  
There's a slight jar, as the boat bumps up against a set of stairs leading up to the waterfront's promenade. The girl appears again, along with the old man.

 

He looks at the old man, and then at the little girl. She clearly hasn't told him about what the Woman said, because she's still shaking at the knees. Knees, slight bruising. Slight bow to thigh. She tenses but does not pull away when the old man touches her. The signs are obvious, but Sherlock feels nothing when it comes to protecting the girl. She is outside of his sphere of acknowledgment.  
  
But John Watson would want to protect her.  
  
" _You get the girl and her brother. I'll distract him._ "

 

She gives him a look of irritated surprise. " _What happened to 'can't take two children with us'_?" she shoots back before reaching into her pocket again.  
  
Her expression gives nothing away as she switches back to English, her tone thankful for the old man's benefit despite the actual words. "Just walk over there and give him the diamond, dear, then come with me and we'll get your brother."

 

Once the girl gives the old man the diamond, Sherlock steps up, his expression just shy of _dopey_. Distracting. Focus on the big, strange Englishman that smells like Hong Kong's water system.  
  
There are a few words Sherlock knows in every language, and as he pats his pockets, he says the word for cigarette, and pulls out a few soggy bills from his pocket to offer to the man in exchange. The man does smoke, Sherlock knows, but he rolls. The amount of money Sherlock offers isn't too much for someone with diamonds to spare, and it will take the man a few minutes to get everything out. He turns his shoulder as he steps forward, blocking the old man's view of the Woman and the girl.

 

The girl's eyes are bright and fearful, but between the man now rolling dingy cigarettes and the two foreigners with diamonds in their pocket, Irene could see her expression shift as she realizes which is the better option. The girl moves on silent feet around the corner and down the hold. Irene doesn't follow; below is dark and unfamiliar and the threat of noise is too great.  
  
She keeps an eye out on Sherlock and the old man, and when the girl appears, her brother toddling up with her, Irene reaches down for him, clapping a hand around the boy's mouth to keep him from protesting.  
  
She gestures to the wet concrete steps up to the waterfront and the girl nods, taking them two at a time. Irene waits until she's met Sherlock's eye before following, and waits near the top with the boy at her hip, out of easy sight of the boat.

 

Sherlock doesn't protest the idea of a cigarette. He takes a drag and realizes just how awful the tobacco is and just how dingy the old man's fingers really are. He's going to need to scrub his mouth out later. He gives the man a grateful nod and stops to lean inside, wave at the children who aren't there anymore. And drops a bag of cocaine by the side, where the Woman might see it, a police officer stopping might see it, but the man wouldn't notice right away.  
  
Police might not notice an abuser, but they'd definitely notice narcotics.  
  
He hops onto the shore and over to the Woman. He doesn't turn to look at her, but does take another drag of the cigarette.  
  
"How far to the hotel?"

 

She _does_ notice the cocaine, though any reaction to it is overshadowed by the boy currently tugging at her hair with one chubby fist.  
  
Irene looks distinctly annoyed as she all but shoves the boy at Sherlock. "Five minutes' walk to the west," she answers. The girl is staring wide-eyed at them both, and Irene pauses long enough to reach into her pocket for what she had promised the girl.  
  
"Stay with us until tomorrow. The man can't hurt you by then, dear, the police will have him and you and your brother can disappear," she says. She's almost uncharacteristically careful with the girl.  
  
They'd be a good disguise, after all, if the Black Lotus were already looking.

 

"Not here they can't," Sherlock says. The boy reaches up to take his hand, and Sherlock looks down at his grimy fingers touching him. He moves the boy's hand to his coat hem.  
  
"They'll end up working for the Black Lotus, so long as they're lucky," he says. "No. No, I---"  
  
He grimaces. "I know another way to get them safe. Though it'll mean we can't stay here more than a day. Not that I imagine you wanted to."

 

The girl nods, looking more and more wide-eyed despite herself, and takes Irene's hand. Irene stares down at the girl's unexpected hand in hers, but doesn't shake it off and begins walking.   
  
" _Being cryptic hasn't worked very well for you today,_ " she reminds him, switching back to French.

 

"We'll need a taxi. And a marker. Some sort of writing implement."  
  
She's talking in French, that means she thinks whatever his plan is will upset the children. And while he's rather disgusted by the children, he doesn't want them to be upset either. Upset generally means crying. Crying is irritating.  
  
He looks over at the Woman. "No, I expect it hasn't, but I don't intend for---"  
  
The little boy tugs on Sherlock's sleeve, and he looks down to see him holding up a bright purple marker, apparently procured from his own pocket. Sherlock takes it.  
  
 _"I'm going to send them away from here with a note. The right person will see it and know what to do."_

 

It is more that she didn't want any plan of his to be revealed by loose, impressionable lips. The girl knows enough English to translate, and while she seems for the moment to be content with the thought of escape, the last few days have made Irene cautious.  
  
She notices the boy beginning to frown at the marker being taken. "I think he's expecting a thank you." A faint smile touches her lips.  
  
" _I'm beginning to wonder which is worse. Leaving them to a gang of smugglers or your plans._ "

 

"I imagine he is," Sherlock says, pursing his lips in mild irritation.  
  
He raises a hand, and a taxi cautiously pulls up near them. He kneels down.  
  
 _"She won't trust me. Tell her to turn around, that I'm not going to hurt her. I just need to write a note on the back of her shirt."_

 

Irene gives him a flat look and stops.   
  
"Or you could simply tell her yourself," she points out. The girl's hand tightens on hers, and Irene sighs. She kneels and speaks quietly to the girl. She may be keeping her voice low precisely to irritate him, but the girl's grip on her hand relaxes as she does. The girl whispers back.  
  
"She wants to know what you're going to write." Irene doesn't bother telling him what the girl had called him.

 

He uncaps the marker.  
  
"The name of a person who will help," he says. "But she has to tell him a magic word, otherwise he won't."

 

The girl stares at him consideringly for a moment. "But you have to tell me the magic word first," she finally says. A look to Irene. "Make him tell me the magic word."  
  
Irene tries not to laugh.

 

Sherlock doesn't remember being so young. He has no real memory of being excited over magic words. He remembers not properly fitting in. He remembers hiding under the bed in his mother's home and finding places in the field to go to be away from the slow people who worked for her. He also remembers the one person who really seemed to understand him.  
  
 _Whenever you're afraid, Sherlock, whenever you really need me to rescue you, you just need to use our password._  
  
"Refuge," he tells the girl. He gestures for her to go into the taxi. On the back of her shirt he's written _Mycroft Holmes._

 

The girl's lips move as she silently repeats the word to herself, memorizing it. Irene doesn't bother to say goodbye; she's given the girl all she needs to escape and the girl could do with it what she would. She catches a glimpse of the note written on the back of the girl's shirt, however, and says nothing. For the moment.  
  
The boy, still clinging to Sherlock's coat, however, chooses that exact moment to say his own goodbyes. In the form of a copious dribble of pale green baby food along the front of Sherlock's coat.

 

Sherlock's mouth shuts, and he extracts his coat from the boy's grip.  
  
"Get _in_ to the taxi," he says, trying to sound calm, rather than absolutely disgusted.  
  
He glares at the Woman.  
  
"Not a word out of you."

 

The girl takes her brother by the hand and heads for the taxi. Irene, on the other hand, is smiling without any hint of arch superiority. She suspects she's on the edge of hysteria. Or that was just extraordinarily amusing to watch Sherlock Holmes be thrown up on by a toddler.  
  
Could be either.  
  
"You should have told him thank you."


	9. A Momentary Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knowledge that Mycroft Holmes will soon know of Sherlock's continued existence is a ticking clock in the Consulting Detective and the Woman's temporary holiday from death. But even with the threat of exposure breathing down their necks, there is only so much their bodies can handle before collapse...

"By the time they get to London, Mycroft will know I'm alive," Sherlock says, his voice serious. "It was something I was hoping to avoid."  
  
It means that once Mycroft knows, he'll start searching for him. And if Mycroft finds the Woman---it won't be a good thing. He won't let something happen to her.  
  
"We should get to the hotel," he says. "I need to pour scalding water over every part of my body right now."

 

Irene's brow furrows. Her mind has already worked through the implications of that scenario, and Irene is mentally reviewing whether the girl would be able to give a good enough description of her to Mycroft Holmes for the elder brother to put the pieces together.   
  
She decided that it would be best to assume he would. That being dead and ginger was not nearly enough of a disguise. Her lips pressed into a thin line, Irene nods and begins walking towards the hotel again. The Peninsula is less than a block away, its impressive facade already dwarfing the museums on the other side of the street.   
  
"You could always ring for disinfectant. I expect they'll even bring full decontamination gear if you asked."  
  
Maybe she's still laughing. A little.

 

"Disinfectant, yes." He's so revolted right now that it takes a moment for him to realize she's being funny. He glares. It isn't funny. It's disgusting. And now they're the equivalent of off of a case, so he's just done with being wet and disgusting.  
  
He looks out to where the taxi is driving away. There's no stopping it in a moment. Mycroft will soon know.  
  
"He won't realize it's you," he says. "He's so utterly convinced of your demise that he told John Watson to lie to me."

 

It _is_ funny, actually.   
  
But there's little laughter in her voice despite the amusement lingering in her eyes when she speaks. "Why send them to him in the first place? They would have survived here."  
  
Not that she _cares_ that he's gone and let someone else know he was alive. Not at all.

 

"Survived, yes," Sherlock says, looking back at her. "And the Black Lotus would've had her by the time she was thirteen. And they don't _deserve_ her."  
  
And there was John in his head. John, John, John. Telling him to save her. Telling him it was the right thing to do, and scowling at him. _Honestly, Sherlock, I have no idea how you think that a child can survive on her own!_  
  
"Mycroft will keep my secret. He knows the significance of what I told her."

 

She arches an eyebrow at the fine distinction he makes. It's finer than one she would have put on things. But then, her idea of survival included successfully manipulating those around her, and that could be done better in an organized gang than anywhere else.   
  
The doorman at the Peninsula is looking at them skeptically, both of them still damp and carrying the scent of the harbour along with them, but Irene gives him a haughty, pointed look and he opens the door. "But he'll come looking all the same," she says. It's a guess but an obvious one given his earlier insistence of having to leave.  
  
"Well, twelve, maybe eighteen hours is better than nothing."

 

Sherlock, in turn, gives the man a more sheepish look. The doorman's eyebrows relax, showing that he thinks he's 'deduced' what's happened between them. The Woman's haughty expression, Sherlock's guilty one---silly English men.  
  
Once they've entered the hotel, Sherlock's expression defaults to its more natural expressionless state.  
  
"We'll need to go somewhere he can't find us on CCTVs," he replies. "Shouldn't be too difficult. He won't tell his superiors, so he won't have his staff to help him."  
  
At the desk, he orders them a room. He starts out in 'tourist Mandarin', but is quickly responded to in English.

 

A wry smile, as the clerk initially begins to protest and Irene slides one of the Black Lotus' gemstones across the counter. The clerk protests again, more feebly, and turns away to gather keys and documents.   
"Hardly comforting," she murmurs, lest the clerk overhears. "You managed to find me in Pakistan without having staff."

 

"Yes, but I didn't have a country to run in the middle of it," he says, his voice quiet as well. "Also, you may have always been brilliant at manipulation and playing the game, but you didn't take up _hiding_ very well."  
  
Of course, Sherlock has to manage hiding while hiding from an entire world, and destroying what is left of Jim Moriarty's advanced web.

 

She laughs softly at his answer as the clerk hands over a pair of keycards and gestures towards the bank of elevators. Irene slips the keycards into her pocket and head in the direction indicated.  
  
"Now you're being flattering. Trying to convince me to lower my guard?"  
  
Even though she knew, and knew he would expect, that it would have the exact opposite reaction.

 

"Of course not," he says, not looking her way. "Though if it takes convincing to get you to take a shower..."  
  
He presses the button for the third floor without bothering to ask her. He noticed the stack of cards from where the man pulled them out, and the deduction of floor number was easy. She'd have to lead the way to which door was theirs.

 

She turns right when the elevator stops at the third floor, hiding a smile at the fact that she leads. It was becoming easier now, to see where his deductions ended. She suspected she was either learning where to look, or simply had more opportunity now.  
  
Stopping in front of a door labeled 348, she touches the card to the lock and the door unlocks. Another quiet laugh. "No fear of that, Mr. Holmes. The only danger is that I'll use up all the hot water before you can properly disinfect yourself of whatever that boy spit up on your coat."

 

Sherlock looks genuinely perplexed for a moment.  
  
"And what gave you the impression that you'd be having the first shower?" John Watson never made this a problem.

 

An arched eyebrow, and an amused, challenging look gleams in Irene's eyes.   
  
"Bored of playing the gentleman already?"

 

"Covered in the vomit of a child that hasn't eaten anything apart from fish in a week," Sherlock replies, letting the 'k' click a little, as if to show that he's just as refined as he's always been, he simply cares less right now.

 

Her hand rests lightly on the handle to the hotel room door, not yet pushing it open. "Overdramatic. It couldn't have been more than a tablespoon of vomit. And only on the coat."   
  
She's considering fighting him for the shower.

 

As if anticipating her thoughts (he's not, of course, he's merely guessing), he says: "You won't be able to physically overtake me for the shower, not in your state."

 

Irene's eyes narrow. She isn't that obvious, she _knows_ it, and she pushes the door open.   
  
"Think I won't hurt myself in the attempt to prove you wrong?"

 

He stands with her at the entrance of the door, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Do you really think I'd worry about you being hurt over this?"

 

The room is almost painstakingly tasteful in its opulence, from the thick plush carpet to the minimalistic artwork. Irene shrugs, a smirk on her lips.   
  
"You were awfully convinced of your need to save me from myself just a few hours ago."

 

"Was I?" he says, purposefully obtuse. "Doesn't sound like me."  
  
Except it was. And still is, of course. If he genuinely thought she'd be hurt---no, but that's totally absurd. She could not possibly be hurt in even the briefest of tussles to the shower. And he's not John---  
  
He finds himself nearly wincing. He's thought about the man far too often to be healthy.

 

His purposeful obtuseness is as much an admission as anything, and Irene brushes past him with a smirk into the interior of the hotel room. She doesn't make immediately for the shower as she had promised but stands in the middle of the room and turns slowly, taking in every inch of space, every shadow where a camera can be hidden.  
  
Over her shoulder, she muses, "Twelve or thirteen hour flight from here to London, give or take. You expect he'll come himself?"

 

"Without a doubt," Sherlock replies. He peels off the coat and lets it fall near the door. He grimaces, and looks past her at the bathroom. He considers making a break for it, but knows that would just make him look as desperate as he feels for cleanliness.  
  
"He'll interrogate her briefly, realize within thirty minutes that she doesn't know anything, and have both of them put into homes in Britain. Just far enough away that they'll never see him, but not so far he can't keep an eye on them."

 

"Twenty five hours then. Eighteen before we have to leave for a reasonably cool trail."  
  
She catches him eyeing the bathroom, and Irene crosses the room to the desk to ring for the front desk. At the same time as she gives instructions for clothes and food to be brought up, she begins shedding clothes.

 

As her clothing comes off, he can see new evidence of the abuse she took there, during her capture. Bruises and scrapes, things that clothing covered. The way the bones in her back stick out. He doesn't have to touch them to imagine what they feel like.  
  
He still feels so unreasonably angry. The fact that they _could've_ killed her is irrelevant. She's not dead. But that---it keeps sitting in his mind. She could've been wiped away from him. He did not feel this sort of anger when he saved her from the terrorists. He feels it now.

 

The telephone conversation with the front desk is short, efficient, uninterrupted and, when Irene hangs up the phone, she heads for the bathroom, pausing only when she realizes she hasn't been beaten to it as she had expected.  
  
She stops and half-turns towards him, surprise and perhaps the smallest bit of concern in her expression.  
  
"Changed your mind?"

 

He refuses to look like he's been beaten, or worse that he's given up.  
  
He nods to the bathroom.  
  
"Bathroom that size, we've got more than enough room to share," he says, though that was not his intention at all in delaying. "And I believe modesty is unimportant to either of us."

 

Her eyes sweep over his face, taking in the slightest twitches in the familiar, near-emotionless mask. Whatever she sees, she keeps to herself, and instead Irene steps into the aforementioned bathroom, which is in fact more than spacious with both shower and tub, and cool marble inlaid beneath her feet.  
  
"The gentleman as always." There might be a bare hint of laughter in that.

 

"I can be," he says.  
  
He follows, shedding the suit in pieces, tossing each into the rubbish bin as he does. He follows after, and does wait until she moves into the room before following.

 

She heads for the large, circular tub. It's big enough for two but she leaves him the shower anyway. A small concession on her part, but she tells herself she's simply tired of standing up and the thought of soaking in the tub is more relaxing.  
  
A touch to the tap, and water begins filling the tub, the sound of it and the promise it offers already starting to cause tension to ebb. Only then does Irene turn to look at him. There are fresh bruises and injuries that she hadn't seen in Las Vegas, bruises alongside the old scars and track marks, the almost vicious looking hole in his chest where he'd obviously ripped out an IV. The neatly stitched wounds now edge with red from physical activity and irritation. Her gaze is thorough, but all she says is,  
  
"You were busy."

 

He glances back at her briefly, and turns the shower on. She's referring to his stretched stitches and new bruises, he imagines, and they're all starting to come into full focus as painful, now that the adrenaline has worn away. It hardly matters, though.  
  
"Everything is just transport," he says.

 

"If that were true, you wouldn't care half so much about the boy's spit-up," she cannot resist pointing out.   
  
The tub fills rapidly. In a place as opulent as the Peninsula, anything less would have been a crime, and Irene makes sure there is soap and shampoo within easy reach before she slips into the clean, steamy water. A throaty, obscene sigh of pleasure escapes her at the sensation.

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the familiar sound, almost identical to the one that came from his phone for so long.  
  
He steps under the hot spray of water and lets it run over his hair, over his body. Everything aches, and a lot of it stings, too. He grabs his own soap and runs it over his hair and body in cautious strokes, a bit like an over-concerned cat.  
  
"You never asked," he says, suddenly. "What that word I told the girl meant."

 

Irene doesn't answer for a full minute, maybe longer. Right before she does, there is the quiet telltale splash of water sluicing as she resurfaces, though she doubts it can be heard over the steady spray of the shower.   
  
Now that the effects of adrenaline are starting to fade, she is beginning to feel the effects of the lack of sleep and food more keenly, as well as the aches and pains of days of abuse. She reaches for the shampoo and begins working a palmful into her hair.   
  
"No, I didn't," her voice is carefully neutral, almost but not quite distracted. "Did you expect me to when you told her?"

 

"No, I expected you to wait until after she was gone and you had exhausted all other deductive forms in understanding it," he says.  
  
He had simply wanted, after this long day, to be told by her that she didn't know something. Yes, he had been the one to come and rescue her, but he strangely felt as though he was still behind her, somehow. She'd still beaten him.


	10. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhaustion wears Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler's respective armour thin, and things are bound to slip. But is it a slip, a blip in the circuitry, or an opportunity, a discovery that will bring them closer? Or simply something to be hidden again, to be buried deep when sleep and food have healed them?

She's nearly too tired to play this game with him. But it keeps her mind off how much she hurts and how tired she is as she works knots and dirt and filth out of her hair. She keeps it piled high on her head out of her eyes, a mass of deep red locks and white lather, as she reaches for the soap and begins scrubbing off days of accumulated dirt, wincing as the soap found its way into small cuts and wounds she hadn't noticed before.  
  
"And here I was rather enjoying the thought of it as a safeword between you and your brother."  
  
If she sounded a bit too tired to really sell that she meant it, well, that was too bad.

 

Sherlock considers her words for a moment, and peers around the steamed-up glass at her in her bath. Shampoo is running down his shoulders from his mass of white-foamed hair.  
  
"Define 'safe-word'. Considering your profession---"

 

"Former profession," she corrects. Irene glances over at him, nearly shrouded in steam from the shower, and laughs quietly before slipping back under the water to rinse out her hair.  
  
When she surfaces again, she continues, "And I meant exactly what I said. Why do you think I'm loathe to give up the idea for the truth?"  
  
Okay, maybe she sounds a little more amused now.

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the very _idea_ of Mycroft in any sexual form whatsoever. Logically, he's aware that Mycroft engages in romantic liaisons in order to keep up appearances. It doesn't make the idea any less revolting.  
  
He goes back under the shower and lets the spray fall over him, rinsing out the dirty soap. He lathers again with more shampoo. There is no real need to conserve any of the complimentary products, especially since they won't be returning.

 

She laughs again at his lack of response as she works in conditioner. The thought of slowly being put to rights again is unspeakably satisfying, and she luxuriates in it for a long moment, losing herself in something as simple and mundane as bathing.  
  
Eventually, she speaks again.  
  
"Would you tell me if I asked?"

 

It's a legitimate question. He considers it for a moment, considers the implications of telling her something so intimate. So _personal_. No one save for Mycroft himself knows. And yet, there is something special about sharing something so private. Something special that part of him wants to share with the Woman. How strange. It must be more sentiment.  
  
"Only if you truly wanted to know," he replies.  
  
Third lather-rinse done, he flips off the shower and grabs a towel.

 

His answer isn't what she expects. There's a gravity to the words, a heaviness, the weight of truth, to them. And for a moment Irene wonders if she _does_ want to know. Because there is an unspoken expectation, that what real truths they have of each other, what knowledge they hold over each other, are things hard fought, things deduced and _won_ , not things freely offered.  
  
But she is curious, not only about the word, _refuge_ , but about why he would offer it when he rarely offers anything.  
  
She stalls, rinses the conditioner out of her hair and sets the tub to drain before climbing out of it. She doesn't want to know what's been left behind in the water.  
  
She does nothing for a moment, simply stands there letting water puddle on the marble as she studies him. "Tell me?"  
  
It had been authoritative in her mind, but somehow as the two words make their way to her lips, they turned into a question.

 

He finishes drying, standing there naked physically and feeling fairly naked emotionally. She does that when so few people can or do. He lays the wet towel across the towel warmer and picks up another, which he shakes out to put around the Woman's shoulders.  
  
There is physically naked and emotionally naked. Sherlock reminds himself that neither are important and does not go to seek out some sort of covering, anything to make himself feel like he hasn't just asked her to listen to something very private.  
  
He thinks before he speaks. He always thinks before he _begins_ speaking, but then continues to think aloud. It's what makes having an assistant so valuable when he's on a case. In this particular instance, it makes him feel very awkward and strange.  
  
"As a child, expressing my--- _disinterest_ in others was not always the most simple of things. I was often left frustrated or angry. Running away became commonplace because it was somewhere where I could be with the one person I wanted to be with---myself." As he speaks, he finds the complimentary plasters and bandages, always hidden beneath the sink of hotels. He glances back at the Woman, assessing what she might need.  
  
"When I ran away they would send Mycroft after me. After all, he was the eldest, should've been watching anyway, that sort of thing. Mycroft devised a---a sort of safe-word, if you will. Something that I could tell him when the world was a bit more than a child wanted to handle, but I couldn't quite articulate why. He would find me somewhere to hide, no questions asked. Looking back, considering Mycroft, no questions were probably necessary."

 

The longer she spends in his company, the easier it seems to Irene that he is able to strip away the armour, the mask of cool indifference, that she wears like a second skin. And standing here with the towel he's placed around her shoulders, seeing a glimpse of his past that she could not have discovered any other way, she feels more vulnerable than she had nude.  
  
It makes Irene move, because if she stands still the silence becomes heavy expectation, a feeling that she do _something_ to reciprocate. She moves the towel, wrapping it tightly around her torso before stepping around him, and towards the door to the bathroom.  
  
"Must have been nice," she finds herself saying. "To have had someone who could even begin to understand."  
  
It's more than she'd wanted to say. And reveals more of her past than she'd like to. But he pulls it out of her, the little slips, the little bits of knowledge given away in a rapid pulse or dilated pupils, in a word or a phrase.

 

"At first," he admits. "But understanding can lead to sentiment. And sentiment is only for those on the losing side."  
  
Sherlock has long come to the understanding that the opposite of love is not _hate_ , it is, in fact, indifference. And as he is not indifferent to his brother, on some level he must still love him. After everything they've been through, he still loves him. Sherlock hates his brother even more for that.  
  
"I would've expected that your father understood you, at least," he says, pulling another towel down and wrapping his waist with it. It feels better, being somewhat dressed, and that fact is very annoying.

 

A wry laugh at his answer, and Irene steps past him into the hotel room. The cool air raises goosebumps on her skin, and she trades the towel for a plush cotton robe from the armoire. She wonders idly if he would make the same claim with her. That understanding led to the sentiment that brought him to Hong Kong, the same sentiment that kept her from leaving for Australia the first time, and even the second time.  
  
The same sentiment that lodged a little knot of guilt in the pit of her stomach when she'd seen the damage since Vegas. The fact that most of his wounds had been self-inflicted only made that a little easier to ignore.  
  
But his statement about her father makes Irene turn again, a faint furrow growing at her brow. "What makes you think that?"  
  
Curious. Cautious. Refusing to give anything more away than she already had.

 

"The way you fight," he says. "Vicious, brutal, but without use of feminine attributes, such as nails or heels. Could've learned to fight from a client or someone else, but more likely that instinct is drawn from your father."  
  
He's guessing. He knows he is. The Woman stands before him as much of a mystery as she was the day she walked into his life, nude but for expensive high heels.

 

At his explanation, she laughs. Not wry or malicious or even archly superior at his error. Just genuine, pleased laughter.  
  
"That was the neighbor's boy, actually," she replied. "Took me two weeks to goad him into throwing the first punch."  
  
Well, she had been learning then. Learning that while she might have been able to figure out what the older students wanted, the subtlety to do it without their noticing would take longer to develop, and she'd thought that to defend herself would have been best.  
  
It'd taken about three more weeks after that first punch for her to realize that the neighbor's boy was far better at throwing said punches, and far easier to get to defend her than to do it herself.  
  
The laughter fades a little, and she crosses back to the bathroom to take the first aid materials from him.

 

"But not at you," he says, watching her. "No, you're far too good at manipulating for just that."  
  
As she approaches, he hands over the plasters and bandages, letting his fingertips graze hers as they pass. Part of him wants to know so much about her, because while he can _guess_ , he has no way to deduce, to properly know. But part of him prefers her as this mystery, this thing he does not properly understand.

 

Another soft laugh. She tells herself that the only reason she tells the story is to be contrary, to contradict what he expects. It is certainly a less sentimental reason than idea that she wants to balance the scale again, that knowledge of how he had been as a child (a scenario she can see almost painfully easily in her mind's eye).  
  
"The first one was. Before I realized he was better at throwing them than I was," she corrects. His fingers are warm against hers, and she catches his hand with hers as she takes the supplies and leads him with her to the couch. "Even I had to learn somewhere."

 

He follows her easily. He has made numerous attempts to deduce parts of her life before, but has always been left wanting. To him, that's the point. That's the appeal.  
  
"You didn't grow up in a poor area," he says. "Even when distressed, your accent doesn't change. Doesn't slip." With his free hand, he reaches over to brush his thumb across her cheek, where the bruise is dark and painful-looking.  
  
"So why did you need to defend yourself, hmm?"

 

She doesn't flinch at the touch of his thumb against the bruise blooming against her cheek. The pressure is a small, almost inconsequential discomfort compared to the rest.  
  
Her smile deepens, and it is more like herself, The Woman's wit edging back in as she speaks, "I misbehaved."  
  
She sets the bandages on the couch before running a light fingertip over the vivid mark left by the ripped out IV in his chest. "Did you even notice when you pulled that out?"

 

"Both above and below your social status," he says. "Interesting."  
  
Very her, of course.  
  
His veins were too damaged to take an IV by his arms, and with the straps the nurses believed his wife wanted, putting something into his hand was impossible, so they moved to put it into his chest, instead. It worked, until he decided he wanted to leave.  
  
"I had other things to concern myself with," he says, looking down at where her fingertip touches his skin. _Concern_. He sounds like Mycroft. He never had things to be concerned about before. Is that what sentiment does to him, it turns him into _Mycroft_?

 

The smile lingers on her lips, like warmth in concrete after sunset, and her fingertips trace the wound. Her touch is light, but practiced; she knows exactly what she's looking for, tenderness, signs of inflammation.  
  
"I can see that," she murmurs. "Still concerned with other things now?"

 

"No," he replies, and it's almost too automatic. Of course he has nothing to worry about. She's fine, she's---she's right there. But saying that would imply that he was concerned about her. It would feel like giving in, like admitting something.  
  
But what could he admit that hasn't been painfully obvious?  
  
He leans in towards her, fingertips still on her cheek, still close and intimate, and finds himself wanting to kiss her. Wanting the obvious, just for a moment. His lips just brush hers as there is a knock at the door.


	11. Options and Alternatives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With less than 24 hours to Mycroft Holmes' predicted landfall in Hong Kong, Sherlock and Irene find themselves considering alternatives, contingency plans if their plans go awry. But are exhausted minds really the best choice for making decisions?

She doesn't expect it when he leans in, nor does she expect it when his lips brush hers. It is a gesture that by itself seems too simple, too mundane, too _easy_ for them. But there is a firm, discreet knock on the door, and Irene nearly jumps.  
  
She's tired. That's all.  
  
Her hand falls back to her side, a last lingering touch against his skin, and she steps back, towards the door. "Quicker than I expected, given what I sent the concierge for," she finds herself saying.  
  
She doesn't sound flustered, or uncertain. Or so she tells herself.

 

Is it? She steps towards the door, and he finds himself going for the trousers he just discarded, where the gun had been. He pulls it out, tucking it behind his leg, finger on the trigger.  
  
In case. It's just---it's in case.  
  
Perhaps he's simply too tired, too.

 

Staying aware of him is nearly second nature by now, a thought Irene doesn't think about, and she takes care to position herself at the door so that he has a clear line of sight.   
  
"Just a moment," she says, checking the peephole. Through the small aperture, all she can tell is that the woman on the other side is in her late 20s, wearing the hotel's livery, and that she had expensive tastes that her salary can't even begin to cover.   
  
Irene gives Sherlock a look over her shoulder, ensuring that the weapon was not immediately visible. There is no need to feign a tired expression as she opens the door.

 

The woman behind the door gives the Woman a big smile, gesturing to the food and clothing she's brought. Sherlock scans her.  
  
Shoes: 3 months old, expensive, but worn frequently. Only posh pair she's got.  
  
Earrings: Expensive, diamond, gift. Stud is too long, tears into the back of the ear.  
  
Lipstick: Old, starting to cake, also expensive, but too expensive to be replaced at the moment.  
  
Hair: Recently cut. Clothes: Recently laundered, one size too tight.  
  
Danger potential: 35%. He keeps the gun out of sight, waiting.

 

The hall behind the woman is empty, and Irene nods, stepping back and gesturing for the woman to wheel the cart in. Her clothes are still where she'd shed them, and Irene steps over to them to fish another one of the CIA agent's gemstones out of her pocket. She presses it into the woman's hand with a murmur. Something about mobile phones and the front desk and a travel agent.  
  
The woman's eyes widen ever so slightly when she realizes what's been pressed into her hand, and she nods before backing towards the door.  
  
Irene doesn't bother watching to make sure the woman leaves or closes the door behind her. She knows he is already. "Should I point out that you'll need to eat if we're to leave in any reasonable time frame?"

 

"We're not leaving until tomorrow," he says. "At the very earliest."  
  
He puts the gun down. It probably would not have gone off anyway, considering it spent that swim in the harbor. All the same, it might've made a good tool to frighten any potential problems away. He can only hope the diamonds that the Woman is handing around will keep them out of trouble, too.  
  
He heads over to the cart and pulls a cover off of a tray. A bowl of steaming noodles is quickly picked up, and he takes a bite, as if to show her that she has no choice but to do the same.

 

She looks decidedly amused at the pointed way he's eating, and Irene lifts a few of the covers off the trays until she locates a plate of tea sandwiches. It isn't that she isn't hungry, or that she wants to feign any delicacy, but that she knows she may well fall asleep before she's even made it through half of any dish and the thought of spilling things on herself is decidedly unpleasant.  
  
And it might be, just a little, that she enjoys being the aloof, untouchable Woman.  
  
She pops a cucumber sandwiches into her mouth, making a face at the unexpected taste of mayonnaise where there should have been a touch of butter, and chews thoughtfully.  
  
"Eighteen hours doesn't exactly give us more than tomorrow 'at the latest'," she points out. "Unless you've changed your mind about family reunions."

 

He crinkles his nose at the idea of seeing Mycroft. Part of him, a significant part, enjoys the idea of Mycroft not knowing he's alive because it will be very painful to Mycroft to not know he's alive. Mycroft will blame himself for the suicide, and he will _hurt_ , and Sherlock likes that. It's revenge, in a way. The amount of detachment that Sherlock prefers to affect doesn't go well with revenge, so---perhaps it's better that Mycroft knows. It takes the emotion out of it.  
  
It will change everything, of course.  
  
He swallows another bite of food and pours himself some tea.  
  
"Neither of us is physically capable of moving forward. Especially you." Especially her, yes. He's concerned about her. He refuses to use the term "worried". He also refuses to admit that the limit for himself is about to hit. He's ready to collapse.

 

"'Especially you'?" she repeats, setting the plate down on the side table and taking a seat on the couch. After the past few days, the soft cushions and the singular fact that it didn't sway beneath her feet, were utter luxury.  
  
She settles, curling her feet beneath her, and picks up another sandwich. "I was about to say the same about you."

 

"I'm dehydrated, but fine," he says. "I certainly haven't had poison injected into my system recently."  
  
Well, not that recently, at least.  
  
He drinks some of the tea, but it's hardly enough. He finds the bottled water and opens one up for himself. He looks to the Woman. She could probably use more water, too. He drinks his own bottle and sits down on the bed with the noodles.  
  
"Mycroft could protect you, you know," he says. "If you waited here for him."

 

That suggestion is taken about as well as he had taken to the boy's parting gift on his coat.  
  
She is too comfortable for the moment to move, but over the low back of the couch Irene glares at him, pale eyes narrowing.   
  
"And have him dog my steps in his attempts to find his recently resurrected little brother?" she counters. The fact that she had the knowledge to claim the same protection he'd offered the girl and her brother is a fact that she realizes after she speaks and discards as quickly.  
  
It is an advantage, yes, one that she will no doubt exploit someday, but on her own terms and not because he is _fretting_.  
  
"I think I'd rather take another swim in the harbour."

 

"He'll learn very quickly that you don't know where I am," he says. "So you won't be dogged."  
  
Oh, he'll probably try to squeeze every bit of information he possibly could out of her, but even that wouldn't take too long. Mycroft is clever, the Woman is clever, and they'll both realize how little they need to hide in regards to him.  
  
His body is exhausted, he realizes. The idea of the bed is becoming more and more appealing.  
  
"Are you tired?"

 

A part of her wonders if he _would_ be able to hide that thoroughly from her, now. A part of her wants to believe that she'd be able to find telltale signs, that whatever it is that connects them would draw them inexplicably together again.  
  
It is sentimental rubbish and she knows it.   
  
But the idea refuses to be completely dislodged.  
  
At the question, she stretches her legs on the couch, wincing as overtaxed muscles protested, having already begun to seize up from the short period sitting.   
  
"Would you sleep if I weren't?"

 

"Eventually," he replies. Sooner probably rather than later, but that's not important.   
  
What's important is that part of him wants to know she's all right before he goes to sleep. Part of him needs to know. Needs it. He stands and steps over to the couch, where he offers her his hand.

 

She stares at his hand for a moment, perplexed. She doesn't expect this. She expects... She isn't certain what she expects, really. That sentiment and vulnerability don't linger, perhaps. That the fact that they are for the moment safe is enough to satisfy his concern.  
  
But she takes his hand and rises, ignoring the protest of already stiffening muscles with a wry smile. "'Yes' would have been a better answer."

 

"Why?"  
  
Saying 'yes' would've implied that he felt comfortable admitting he was tired. Or that he was too tired to force himself to stay awake any longer than necessary. 'Yes' was too much. And 'no', while partially more honest, was really impossible. He'd have to sleep, eventually. He'd just prefer it if---it was _more logical_ to sleep once he knew she was, too.  
  
He takes a step back towards the bed, but keeps his body facing her, hand in hers.

 

She should not be this aware of the warmth of his hand, the weight and now-familiar feel of it against hers. She shouldn't, but she is, and Irene lets go, moving to the opposite side of the king sized bed. As if she had not been planning on stretching out on the couch.   
  
Because, as a general rule, Irene Adler slept alone.   
  
She runs her hand along the fine comforter, pulling it back. "It sounds less sentimental."

 

He doesn't quite understand why losing the weight of her hand hand in his is so disconcerting, but it is. Perhaps it was because she was lost for just long enough to make him acknowledge that he preferred her there. She was someone to talk to, someone who he could share part of himself with. Someone who almost but not quite understood.  
  
Yes, sentiment.  
  
All the same, he puts on a face of pure irritation as he goes to his own side of the bed. While Sherlock Holmes is used to sleeping alone, he finds no problem sharing the bed. On occasion he had been known to collapse onto John Watson's bed for no other reason than it was there. Granted, John didn't do much sleeping that night, but Sherlock did.  
  
"Don't concern yourself with that," he says. "I was distracting you when I professed my love, after all."

 

She pauses at the reminder of his stunt on the yacht, and despite the fact that she feels nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion, Irene still manages to shoot him a steely, narrow-eyed look.   
  
"I haven't forgotten."  
  
It's not a threat, because threats of that sort don't work with him, but it is a promise. And she doesn't stalk away, instead sinking (possibly a little heavily) onto the mattress.

 

"I don't imagine you did," he says. "I just don't want you putting everything up to sentiment, Woman."  
  
He slips into place after her, discarding his towel and letting his head rest onto the pillow. It's everything he has to keep his eyes open, to turn his head to look at her.  
  
"We'll leave in the morning," he says. "Nassau. Have you been there?"

 

She'd chalk keeping the robe on as a matter of tiredness, of exhaustion finally catching up with her, rather than any desire to keep the little moments of intimacy that they keep getting caught in at bay. Her eyes are heavy-lidded as she answers, half-watching him through dark lashes.   
  
"Never. I always preferred Aruba."

 

"It'll be a brief stop-off," he says. "We'll be going to a remote island to meet a contact of mine."  
  
He reaches out and finds himself putting a hand near hers. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that her body heat meets him, and he knows she's there. Alive.  
  
"You're alive," he says. He swallows, irritated at himself for speaking without thinking. Again. She makes him do that. It's frustrating. He pulls his hand away and turns his head.

 

Damn him.  
  
Despite her attempts to remain aloof and to remind herself that this is all temporary, he _still_ manages to find some small sentimentality, some small word that threatens to undo her.  
  
Irene's eyes drift close, and she feels the bed shift as he turns his head away. She doesn't thank him for coming, or point out she would have escaped on her own. Instead all she manages is a soft, tired murmur, that comes out perhaps more conciliatory, more reassuring, than she would have chosen if exhaustion wasn't finally overtaking her.  
  
"And I'll stay that way."

 

He turns his head back to look at her. Yes, she would. She would stay alive, no matter what. A world without the Woman in it would be a sad world indeed.  
  
He stays awake a small while longer, watching her sleep. He's not entirely certain at what point he joins her, he just remembers thinking that it will be something worthy of regret---when they finally have to part.


	12. Equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With sleep and food bringing them back to a more familiar equilibrium, Irene and Sherlock must tackle the challenge of slipping Mycroft Holmes' watchful eye while continuing their attempts to destroy Jim Moriarty's web.

The sun is down when he wakes up. It's ideal, really. Mycroft will be traveling now in order to avoid suspicious aircraft behavior, and that means he'll be less likely to spot Sherlock on any CCTVs or flight cameras leaving Hong Kong. He gets out of bed and finds the clothing acquired for them. They're the right size, of course, but not the sort of material Sherlock would've chosen on his own. Never matter, it would work until they arrived in Nassau.  
  
He considers using the wifi connection here to check John's blog. Decides against it.

 

She is too exhausted to dream, and sleep is simply a much needed void in her awareness. She swims back to consciousness slowly, with the subconscious knowledge that the bed shifts as he leaves it, the soft sound of shifting cloth, and countless other little signs.   
  
When Irene opens her eyes, blinking heavy sleep out of them, the first thing she notices is that the bed is otherwise empty, and she ignores a transient sense of disappointment. It seemed almost a loss of control on her part, despite the fact that she knew she'd needed every second of sleep. But, she reminds herself, it had also been spectacular to fool him as completely as she had that sunny morning in Montenegro.  
  
But it is neither sunny nor morning, judging by the light playing across the room, and Irene hides a wince as she sits up. The stitch in her side that tugged with dull pain at a deep breath has not abated, and every muscle simply felt _worn_. It is irritating; she much preferred being on the causing end of pain.  
  
She turns her attention to the door first and listens, before speaking. "No one's threatening to break down the door. That's an improvement."

 

He turns to look over at her as she sits up. The wince doesn't go unnoticed, and he thinks about the cuts on her arms back in Las Vegas. Would she be hiding a pain to prove something? And why, most importantly, did it matter so much to him? The _mattering_ was a problem.

  
"Mycroft would've taken the flight about an hour ago," he says. "Flying any other way would've attracted too much attention for something he'd be trying to keep discreet."  
  
A paper prints out of the small ticket printer on the desk, and Sherlock folds it, putting it securely in his pocket.  
  
"Brief train ride out of the city," he says. "Followed by a flight. He'll start by watching the flights out of Hong Kong, so moving one or two cities over would be our best bet."

 

To her own mind, Irene isn't hiding pain, but proof of vulnerability. She enjoys being untouchable as much as he enjoys being aloof, after all. But as much as she hides the wince, she doesn't hide the fact that she moves carefully as she gets out of bed, shedding the robe she'd worn carelessly as she pads on bare feet to the couch, where she'd left the bandages when sleep had seemed a more pressing need.  
  
She begins carefully winding a heavy duty bandage around her torso, pulling it tight against the bruise at her ribs, beneath her breasts, and the hairline fracture she suspects is beneath.   
  
"We'll be more memorable on a train than in the airport," she points out. The bandage "But then it is still less memorable than using the hotel's helicopter."  
  
She's joking. Maybe.

 

He watches her bind herself, but raises an eyebrow at her comment.  
  
"Can you fly a helicopter?" he asks.

 

That makes her laugh, but it tugs at her ribs and she stops almost immediately. "About as well as I drive standard," she admits. "But they have a pilot."

 

"Who will remember us and where we wanted to go," he says, shaking his head. "Your driving was horrific, but it did get us somewhere."  
  
It's a step away from what he'd planned, but he likes that. He thinks that it will be less what Mycroft might expect. The only way he could beat Mycroft at chess was if he started attacking at random, simply throwing off Mycroft's game. This might be a good way to do the same.

 

She swallows back another laugh and pauses to rebind her ribs tighter. The bandage helped mitigate the pain of moving and breathing, though it doesn't seem to do much for laughter. "At least if I ran us off the road, there was a better chance of survival than plunging several hundred feet."  
  
She gives up trying again to apply more pressure, and leaves the bandage as it is, then begins sifting through the clothes the staff had brought up. "Certain you want to trust me not to get you killed?"

 

He looks over at her, eyes somewhat narrowed and serious. Knowing.  
  
"If you tell me that I should trust you," he says. "I will."  
  
There's no sentiment there, he reminds himself. It's simply survival. Staying away from Mycroft means that he'll be able to do more to destroy Moriarty's web. Moriarty's web---he hasn't touched on the web since Las Vegas. He's been distracted. Maybe part of him doesn't want this game with the Woman to be over just yet.

 

There is a distinct coolness between them, as if sleep and safety had tempered intimacy, had reminded them both of who they were and how this was simply a holiday from death. Irene slips a sweater dress over her head, ignoring the motion's pull on her arms, and begins to pull the deep red length of her hair, snarled hopelessly by sleeping on it wet, into a braid down her back.  
  
It doesn't occur to her that between the braid and the cowl neck of the sweater dress, she looks much like she had when she'd first seen him in Kotor, though the slow to fade bruise high on her cheek spoils the image.  
  
"You should always trust me to be on my side, Mr. Holmes," she answers lightly.

 

He does. There's a distinct thrill that shoots through him at knowing she is utterly her own Woman. She will overturn the planet if it would benefit her, and she's capable enough to do it, given enough time.  
  
It's entirely possible a more perfect Woman could not be genetically created. But perhaps that is simply tiredness and the way she wears the sweater dress that makes him think that.  
  
"We'll take the tickets," he says. "It may be enough to send him searching train stations for a time. And so long as you think you can at least get us _somewhere_."

 

She doesn't bother trying to decide whether, for the moment, she is also on his side or he is on hers. Instead, Irene takes the diamonds from the clothes she's discarded last night and slips on a pair of shoes.   
  
"Is that supposed to be a challenge?" she asks. Even if it isn't, she'd take it as such. "I'll meet you on the roof in ten minutes."


	13. A Shot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Irene agree to make their way out of Hong Kong by an unexpected route to throw off Mycroft Holmes' pursuit, but, despite their cooperation, they are still very much themselves. Will their independent decisions break their fragile trust, or will they be able to keep their secrets despite each other's watchful eye?

He finds himself smiling, properly, and that is probably giving away more than he'd like. All the same, he's got a lot to do in ten minutes, and he makes himself look away from her long enough to collect the tickets, his mediocre number of things, and the mobiles he purchased, sitting in a bowl of uncooked rice. He picks up the cold tea from the night before and splashes it onto the train tickets.  
  
He starts towards the door, ready to cause a scene and draw attention to his tickets before making it to the roof.

 

Her own smile is razor sharp with anticipation, and Irene makes her way down to the front desk, where the concierge had followed her instructions to the letter. A second set of mobile phones, brand new, of the model that allowed multiple sim cards. Prepaid and virtually untraceable from an electronic point of view.

  
She collects them, along with the concierge's purse, and heads down again, to the basement and then the freight elevator. Reception is still good as she rides the elevator up to the roof. As she does, Irene takes one of the phones and activates it, sending a text to a number she can only guess still works.  
  
` _Pity about your little friends on the yacht, Sebastian. We should have a drink._`  
  
By the time the elevator takes her up to the rooftop helipad, Irene's set a password to that phone and returned it to her pocket.

 

Sherlock throws a small tantrum about the printer not working, before finally throwing his tickets down and storming out the door. The woman he'd spoken to looks both bewildered and upset, and Sherlock can't possibly care less. He heads around to the front of the building, and looks around until he sees a small camera pointed in the direction of the hotel. Not Mycroft. Not yet.  
  
He watches it for a moment, and then turns, heading down an alleyway to the back of the building. Up the fire escape, and over the edge of the rooftop to where the Woman is stepping up onto a helipad.  
  
"What, exactly, do they need this for?" he asks without preamble.

 

She offers him the second new mobile. "Just in case you feel like losing the others as false breadcrumbs," she says by way of explanation. The concierge's purse includes her badge, which opened the locker that contained keys and safety equipment for the helicopter.  
  
Irene takes a moment to check the flight and maintenance log before taking the keys. "I expect they don't need this at all," she answers with that same anticipatory smile. "Good thing I don't expect to bring it back."

 

"Fuel-wise, we should be able to go about four hundred miles," he says, pocketing the mobile phone. He doesn't bother asking for her number, she'll have already programmed it in. He wonders, idly, if she even programmed her own voice as the text alert.  
  
"We could go as far as Taiwan. Laos. Or simply land in Guangzhou and take a plane from there." He says the words so firmly and knowledgeably that he doubts she'll question how he knows it. He certainly won't admit it involved a little research on his walk down to the front desk.

 

"Taiwan would cause an international incident," she dismisses, approaching the helicopter. There's an old, ingrained confidence in the way she approaches it, the kind of confidence that spoke to having spent quite a bit of time among the machines.   
  
"One that wouldn't do us any good," she corrects herself. Any upheaval in the volatile politics of the area would also give the Black Lotus (and Moran) more time to go to ground and reorganize, and this was one group she wanted to remain exactly where it was. "No matter how much more difficult it might make things for the British Government."  
  
Irene opens the pilot's side door and runs her hand over the controls. As well kept as the maintenance logs had suggested. Good. "Guangzhou or Macau, I think."  
  
That, of course, depended on exactly how much she remembered of flying.

 

"As long as you can get us there," Sherlock says. The correction doesn't go unnoticed, though he doesn't really understand why an international incident would be anything different for the Woman. Is there someone here, in Hong Kong, that she's afraid might find out she's alive? He's never truly been interested in her web, so perhaps he's missing something.  
  
Hardly matters, he supposes. There is a great deal about the Woman he does not know. So many parts of her and her life that have large white ???? over them.  
  
"Guangzhou," he says. "Less likely for Mycroft to have anyone there. And, if I remember correctly---" Which he always did--- "A friend I can visit."

 

She raises an eyebrow at the mention of the friend, but Irene doesn't expect an explanation, not at the moment, and simply climbs into the pilot's seat. The headset dangles from a hook above the pilot's head, within easy reach, and Irene touches it briefly. She closes her eyes for a moment, and without sight she reaches for each control.  
  
 _Cyclic,_ in front. _Collective_ , on her left. _Throttle_ , with the collective. _Pedals_ , beneath her feet. It's a familiar routine that she'd ignored for a long time, but it comes back easily, she can almost hear the lecturing voice. She opens her eyes again, and is pleased that everything is, in fact, exactly as she remembers.  
  
"You should strap in before I start the rotors," she tells him with a smirk. "I'd hate for them to take off the top of your head."

 

He nods, but keeps himself where he is for a moment.  
  
He doesn't need to ask her if she can do this. She's remembering the basics, and doing so without sight. Of course she can do this. It simply won't be as smooth as...well, other rides. But it will be something Mycroft won't expect. Sherlock never learned how to fly anything, and made a point of informing Mycroft that it was ridiculous and unnecessary to fly helicopters.  
  
It might buy them more time.  
  
He gets in and straps himself in, picking up the second headset.

 

As soon as he's strapped himself in, she pulls on the headset and starts the main rotor. The noise would have been deafening without the headsets, but with them it is just extraordinarily loud. She sets the throttle slowly, feeling the craft beginning to push upward as the rotor spins up, and works the collective to ease them forward once they're at least eight feet off the pad.  
  
Not the best technique, but it got them and moving. Muscle memory never quite forgets, and after ten, fifteen minutes, the helicopter is moving steadily (albeit susceptible to dips and bounces when she encounters unexpected thermals).   
  
Her voice is tinny and mechanical when she finally speaks, the headset's built-in microphone routing the sound through their headsets rather than allowing it to be swallowed by the rotor noise. "Hiding your surprise?"

 

"I am rarely surprised," he replies. Hiding his mild terror, yes, probably. But as high up as they are, he imagines that the worst they'd expect is if she lost control, they'd just fall to a quick death. Far better than it could be.  
  
"You were taught," he says. "How to fly this type of helicopter. The question is, where?"

 

His voice is just as tinny and mechanical and processed as she expects hers had been, and between that and her concentration, she doesn't notice any hidden terror in his words.  
  
A smile, and she guides the helicopter higher, to ensure clearing the skyscrapers. "It wasn't from the neighbor's boy," she answers. The longer she's at the controls, the more confident her motions are, and a distinct exhilaration creeps into her expression. "If that was going to be your guess."

 

"Russian princess, I'd say," he says. "Definitely royalty, and definitely someone from northern Asia."  
  
It was the way she curled her fingers over the controls, the way she moved her hands. He'd tell her quite easily how he knew, so long as she admitted he was right, if she wanted to know.  
  
He glances outwards, where the horizon sits at the edge of the city.  
  
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he says.

 

A twitch of her lips at his deduction.   
  
"Is that what she was? I never figured it out." That woman had, after all, just been another in the endless stream of women who made their way in and out of her young life. Though that one had stayed long enough to teach Irene how to fly. Her father had liked that one.  
  
She checks the instruments, and adjusts their course, taking a slow turn towards the north, as the neon decked shoreline of Hong Kong Harbour receded behind them.  
  
"It's always beautiful from this far up."

 

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."  
  
He imagines a lot of things are beautiful to all sorts of people, but they're rarely beautiful to Sherlock Holmes. When he notices them, it's an important thing to him. He doesn't often find women beautiful, not in a special way, not in an arousing way. When he notices the Woman is beautiful, that's different. And right now, Hong Kong looks beautiful.  
  
Perhaps it's because this place is now significant to him. He doubts it. He still looks out the window for another moment before turning his attention back to the Woman's flying.  
  
"Up for an unplanned trip?" he asks. "A stop-off on our way to Nassau. Probably foolish."

 

She spares him a glance, and there is nothing she can say to refute that. It probably said more about her own aesthetics, that she finds her beauty in the heights and the distance of the landscape.   
  
For another moment she keeps flying, the memory of the woman who'd taught her like a familiar scar, an old wound with its phantom pain. She doesn't say that this entire trip, this entire holiday, is foolish. But it is and she is reveling in it. And what's another foolish trip in an already foolish holiday?  
  
"As long as it has the potential to be interesting."

 

"Oh, it does," he says, letting his lips fall into a sort of half-smirk.  
  
It would be the one place Mycroft won't even bother following on CCTV, because there would be no way Sherlock would go there.  
  
Back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends _Death Takes A Holiday: The Waters of the Fragrant Harbour_. As always, thank you for sticking with us on this adventure, and the next installment should begin the week of 15 December 2013, life willing. We hope you enjoyed the ride as much as we've enjoyed writing it!


End file.
